The Hunger Games
by Nolesr1
Summary: This came about because I was curious: what would the world's reaction be to the Hunger Games? Because, you know the world is still out there and kicking. How would they react? How did the Games get as far as they did? What happened to Alfred when the Games were happening? Well, here's my take on this. May the odds be ever in your favor!
1. The Captor

The coldness of the room seeps into his skin and bones, leaving him shivering. The chains that hold him down dig into his wrists, making the skin raw and susceptible to bleeding, hell, even infection.

Being the personification of a country, he learned long ago, does not make him immune to wounds. It just makes them heal quicker and him harder to kill.

"This won't last long," he calls out, knowing that _he's_ listening. The man-_thing_ that put him in here, knows that _It's_ always watching and listening.

_Big brother's watching you_, he thinks, nearly laughing outright as the words enter his mind, remembering _1984_ and Orwell and everything about that book. He never thought it would get this far, never thought that things would escalate the way they have.

_I should have done more_, he thinks. He knows that he's panicking; he knows that it will get him nowhere; but, no matter what he knows, there is still the fact that he is in an oval-shaped room, tied with chains to keep him from moving, on his knees, with the cold seeping into his very bones.

He finds it faintly ironic-no doubt _It_ planned for this, _It_ always seems to plan ahead, something that Alfred never saw as useful until quite recently.

_You're a fool_, his mind hisses, the words seeming to repeat themselves more and more recently, like a tennis ball being bounced against the inside of his skull. _You saw the signs, you should have done more_. _Now your people will suffer for your incompetence._

He thinks of all those people he let down: every race, ethnicity, religion, color, creed, ideology is represented in him. And, now, he's practically condemned them all.

_I'm sorry_, he thinks, feeling something cold and wet trickle down the side of his face, knowing what it was but refusing to acknowledge it.

"Don't mourn, brother," _It _says-drawls, really. The Southern accent, once so pristine and lilting, now seems evil. Alfred hates that. Hates that the monster in front of him has turned him against something he once loved so much. He can remember watching _Gone With the Wind_ when the movie first came out; he can remember the graceful drawl of some of the Confederate soldiers that, just because they fought against him, didn't make them any less _his_. _His_ people. _His_ countrymen.

_Mine_.

"Mourning is so human," the monster continues, his words dripping with disdain. The sound of something heavy stepping towards him, of something heavy stepping on glass and shattering the precious memory, tells him that the monster is walking towards him. When the figure stops in front of him, It crouches down to get a better look at him, giving Alfred the perfect angle.

Hawking one of the largest loogies in his short span of life-at least, compared to some other countries- Alfred spits in the bastard's face, feeling a deep sense of pleasure at watching It scramble away with a curse and a yell, wiping the back of Its hand against Its skin.

"You are not my brother," Alfred hisses, thinking of Matthew and feeling grateful that his _real_ brother isn't here to witness his shame, his defeat. His mind wanders from Matthew to Francis, wishing more than once that he had paid more attention to the older country when it came to dealing with a usurper.

_But we voted_, he thinks, feeling despair and desperation wash over him in waves. _Democracy worked_. _He was _voted _in!_

_So was Hitler_, another voice, this one sounding perilously similar to Arthur's, hisses. _Hitler was voted in as well and remember what happened there?_

I didn't want this, he thinks, staring in helpless fury as the monster in front of him glares down at him. I never wanted this. "You are not my brother," he hisses again, wanting to repeat the mantra again and again, knowing that the pain-the twisting and tearing in his chest means that he's still alive and still fighting. "And my people will never truly follow you. Never."

The monster rolls his red eyes-God, how absolutely _fitting-_and runs a hand through his reddish brown hair that reminds Alfred of dried blood. "Your people won't know the difference," It informs him smugly, still wiping Its face with the back of Its hands. "They'll happily follow anyone they think they voted in and when they finally figure out something's wrong, it will be too late. People want order, they want discipline and, most of all, they want freedom."

"This is the _land of the free_, asshole, I'm almost positive they have that!"

The monster chuckles and shakes Its head, casually strolling around the small room, glancing at pictures every now and then, some left from previous presidents as an almost calling card to their protégés. There are pictures of George Washington, some of Lincoln, and Reagan, Hell, there's even one of former presidents Bush and Obama and their families. His beautiful land and country, so close to hitting its 400 year mark.

_So close_, he thinks, forcing himself not to bow to the weight of grief that he feels. He instead uses the remnants of his energy to glare at the monster still watching the room, circling it like a wolf would its prey.

"Not free enough," It finally answers, dragging Its hands across a painting of George Washington. Alfred remembers the man fondly and strains against the chains,

"Don't touch that," he snaps, feeling and hearing the bone in his wrist give. Pain sears up his arm, through his entire being. His visions blurs, even with his glasses still somehow balanced perilously on the bridge of his nose, and he bites down a yelp. "What else is there to be free of?"

The monster grins, It teeth white and even, Its smile almost normal looking. Alfred wonders if, in another time and place, the two could have been friends. When the light from outside catches Its eyes, he thinks not. "Well, freedom of course," It answers, reminding him of villains from practically every movie he's ever seen. And there have been a lot.

"That's not how you logic," he growls, no longer straining against his restraints but wanting to piss this asshole off as much as possible. He remembers that Arthur, with his dry wit and sarcasm, had the capacity to always get underneath his skin almost anytime. Now was probably the best time to embrace some of that humor that he'd grown up with. "You really think you can control a country when you can't even logic? You're dumber than I ever was."

The monster glowered at him before casually strolling over to him and socking him, hard, in the gut. If he could, Alfred knew that he should be doubling over at the force of the blow. But, because he couldn't, he finds himself curling up as much as possible around himself. The monster 'tsks' and shakes Its head.

"Honestly, you idiot, save your strength. God knows you're going to need it."

"What do you mean?" Alfred asks through his teeth, wanting to keep It talking as much as possible. If he can get an actual plan out of It, then maybe, when he escapes, he can get some help. Not from Arthur or Francis-God knows they've never let him live it down-but maybe from Matthew or Gilbert, or even Kiku if he hasn't completely fucked them over.

The monster rolled his eyes and sighed, waving toward the window. "For one thing," he begins, his voice heavy with derision. "Your Capitol is burning. Can't you feel that?"

Alfred can. It literally feels like a heart burn, though he's trying to ignore for the moment to get everything straight: buildings can be rebuilt, roads can be repaved, everything can be redone. "Really?" Alfred growls through his teeth, embracing his inner Arthur and letting his sarcasm completely soak into his words. "Is that what that feeling is? No way!" It's not as bad as Pearl Harbor, he thinks, watching the glow of flames from outside. Not as bad as 9/11.

He flinches slightly when the first echoes of screams appear in his head, his people calling out for help, the flames consuming everything. "Stop it!" He orders, flinching when more screams, louder and filled with pain, begin, the feeling of burns beginning to take the place of the cold in the room. It's when the screams turn into wailing that he finally shouts, "You have the country, right? Then leave the people alone! Whatever grudge you have is against me is now over. Not them, they're not part of this! Leave my people alone!"

The flames are getting worse, the screams getting louder. He can feel the twisting in his chest and gut, the feeling as more and more of his people are consumed by the flames.

_Is this how Arthur felt?_ He wonders, panic again enveloping his very being. _Is this how 1666 felt?_

This is as bad, he realizes as panic consumes him like the flames outside_. _This is just as bad.

Alfred is no stranger to disasters-Hurricane Katrine and Andrew; Super storm Sandy; Hurricane Emilio, which slammed into the coast of Florida, almost completely burying it, only a few years ago; tornadoes that could destroy entire cities. But this, somehow, is different: not because he can feel the flames-_the screaming, licking, all-consuming flames that threaten to destroy his very core-_because, he could feel those other storms, too, but because there's something artificial about those flames, something human. As though someone had set his capitol purposefully ablaze.

The monster chuckles and shakes his head, his blood red hair falling across his pale face, "It's hardly my fault," It tells him, still grinning, an expression that looks maniacal to Alfred now. "This was the work of those rebels, now, wasn't it? Quite brilliant, when you think about it. It's interesting how the voting of one simple human can divide a nation like this," It steps forward and pinches Alfred's cheek, though he can barely feel it with the fire that's now consuming his very veins and _God_, the screams and wails that are now echoing within his head are almost too much to bear and-

"What are you going to do," Alfred finally gasps, wanting to focus on something, anything but the pain. "To the people, to the rebels."

"Don't worry," It tells him, now patting his cheek as though he was still an infant nation. "They'll be punished properly."

With that, the monster shoots him one last, more benign smile as the screams from within his head echo loudly from outside the window and the room is bathed in ghastly red flames. The monster slowly straightens up from his crouch and walks towards the doors-strolls, really. As though he was on his way to a picnic. Alfred can faintly hear the monster telling the guards at the door to stay out of the room no matter what they hear.

"Who is it?" One brave boy has the audacity to ask.

_Mine._

"Just a political prisoner that has ties to whoever set this capitol on fire," It answers back seriously. "Do not let him leave this room, understood?"

"Yes, Vice-President Jones," the two boys answer, and Alfred can hear them snapping in salute.

_Mine_.

"One more thing," It mutters, coming back into the room and stepping in front of Alfred. It crouches down, studies Alfred-his eyes squeezed shut, his lips twisted in pain, and his body curved, as though trying to protect himself from the fire-and reaches for his glasses, perched on the bridge of his nose. He takes them off, studies them for a moment, and then drops them on the floor. Alfred can hear It standing up straight-as tall as Alfred himself is _or was_-and can hear the deafening _crack_ as It steps on his glasses, the shattering of glass bouncing off of the walls around them. Alfred forces his eyes open and watches as It straightens up and walks out of the room, reaching for a baseball bat with nails imbedded in one end. The blurry vision of the monster walking away is the last thing he sees before unadulterated shrieks fill his mind, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut. Somehow, he manages to hear the very definite sound of a door falling shut, locking him in a prison where the heart of his nation has lived for almost 400 years and the final words of,

"Let the Games begin."

….

England sighs for what seems like the millionth time, wondering where the bloody hell America was and when the git planned on actually making it to the meeting.

At his right, France sat, trying and failing to flirt with a very uncomfortable looking Austria and to his left, well, it was empty, making him even angrier because that was where the bastard was supposed to sit _if he_ _ever_ _bloody got there!_

It was normal for America to be late for these things, even when the meetings were in his own country. But, being over an hour late? That was a new one, even for him.

Finally, Germany stood up, grabbing the attention of every country in the room. Germany, Ludwig, cleared his throat and glanced around, very obviously noting the empty seat to the left of England and shaking his head, obviously wondering if he should start the meeting.

"Go ahead," England told him, rubbing his forehead to forestall a headache that he felt coming on. "Either France or I will enlighten the git about what he missed the next time we see him."

Germany nodded and opened his mouth, looking as though he was ready to forge ahead. Before he could get a word out, though, the Toad seemed to feel the need to interrupt,

"But where is _Amérique," _France asked, looking around the room as though he expected the git to jump out of the shadows again. He tried it before and had only succeeded in infuriating Romano and making the country hate him. Well, a little more than he already did. "Surely, he should be here for us to start, _oui_?"

"Well, he's not here," England answered tiredly, wanting this entire meeting to be over. His economy had taken a bit of a dive in the last years and England found himself growing even more exhausted then he had been in a while. "And we need to get started."

"Then maybe we should wait-"Japan began, always the calmest country at the meetings. He was, of course, quickly interrupted by Italy.

"Ve, we should wait for America, right Germany?"

The German rubbed the back of his neck, looking at tired as England felt. England sighed and ran a hand through his hair,

"He's an hour late," he informed the Italian, knowing that everyone else no doubt kept up with the time. "If the lad wants to be late, he should know that he'll miss some things."

"I little late for parenting the brat, isn't it?" Prussia asked smugly, leaning back in his seat and wincing when Hungary, as his side, slammed her hand into the back of his head. He rubbed the spot and glared at the country, grumbling, "That was not awesome."

England, his temper getting the better of him snapped out, "You're one to talk."

Prussia glared at him, his face turning a very 'un-awesome' shade of red, "I say we should get started," Prussia declared, glaring at everyone in the room as though daring them to disagree. "The Bulldog is right about one thing: if the brat wants to be late, well then, more power to him."

"Thank you, Gil_bird_," England replied as he leaned back his chair with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest as Prussia's glare intensified.

"But shouldn't America be here?" China asked while leaning forward in his chair and frowning at the people around him. "This involves him just as much as everyone else, aru."

"For God's sake-"

"I hope he's okay," Puerto Rico muttered, looking legitimately worried for the larger country and, he was clearing hoping, his soon-to-be country.

"He has been looking a bit off the last few times I've seen him," France admitted, barely looking concerned as he examined his fingernails. "His people have been in a bit of an uproar over these new elections."

"Maybe he's sick," an even quieter voice asked from behind England. With a frown, the island country turned and saw Canada looking down at his pet polar bear, "who are you?" The bear asked, causing Canada to sigh, almost inaudibly.

England, finally losing his patients, stood up, "He's fine," he told everyone, glaring sternly at a few countries, namely the ones that had anything to do with him. "The _hero's_ fine and America no doubt is just running late. There was probably a long line at whatever restaurant he stopped to eat at and-"

The sound of someone knocking at the door interrupted England, causing him to take a seat. Germany called out an authoritative 'come in' and a young human, probably a secretary of sorts for someone, entered the room, clutching tightly a note in his hand. He walked up to Germany as calmly as he could, all the while trying to ignore the looks of the personified countries boring into his back. He handed the note to Germany, turned around, and practically flew towards the door. Germany opened the letter and read it, frowning as he did so. When he finished, he looked up, his normally stern features marred by a frown,

"This is from America," he stated, holding up the letter. Every country, England noticed, immediately relaxed, falling back into their chairs, with Prussia declaring, 'I told you the brat was fine!'

England, for his part, rolled his eyes and released a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding and leaned back in his own chair. "What does it say, Germany?" He asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Germany cleared his throat,

"America has removed himself from the UN," Germany declared. The reaction around the room was instantaneous: some of the countries all gave delighted 'whoops!' while others snapped to attention, looking as though the hadn't heard right. England and France were part of the latter group, sitting up straight and looking at Germany as though he'd lost his mind. Germany shifted uncomfortably and continued, "It seems that America, with the vote of his people, has elected to give up his seat at the meetings. He signs it over to his _Brüder_, Matthew."

"Who?" A few people around the room asked, looking confused as they swiveled their heads from one corner to another, as though looking for Canada.

"Matthieu already has a seat," France answered, looking alert, something that England hadn't seen in a very long time. "Surely, _Amérique _only means that he is not coming to this meeting, _non_? What is he doing?"

"He says," Germany continued, looking extremely uncomfortable at being the focus of numerous glares. If this was a joke on America's part, England was going to murder the git. "That he and his people vish to stay out of the world's affairs and focus their efforts on their own home. He says that he vill be bringing his soldiers home and that he vill close off his borders. He says that he vill still trade with us, but that he wants to return to isolationism. He will no longer involve himself in other's affairs."

The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, a figure stood up. England recognized the boy-because to him, that's what the newer country was: though he'd been in existence for years, Israel looked like a 15 year-old boy with olive-tone skin, dark curly hair, and dark brown eyes. Beside him sat a young girl with pin straight black hair, the same olive-toned skin, wearing a royal blue _jilbab-_a traditional, floor-length gown worn by women, with vibrant dark green eyes. Jordan and Israel had formed an unlikely friendship that surprised England: they had a relationship that mirrored his and France; they would argue about almost anything but, when push came to shove, the two would stand up for one another. With Jordan's help, her older siblings were slowly coming around to Israel. They didn't want to sit down and have tea, but they were more open and less hostile towards one another.

"Wait," Israel began, looking confused, "what do you mean America is closing his borders? Can he do that?"

"He's done it before," Germany replied, wincing at the reminder. England had long ago forgiven Ludwig for the Battle of Britain. However, there was still some awkwardness whenever the topic came up. Alright, then, maybe he hadn't completely forgiven him.

"But he is our ally!" Israel argued, looking around at some of the other countries seated near him.

"And if you ever need his help, I'm sure he'll give you some supplies," England assured the boy, somewhat bitterly. In all his years, he'd learned that sometimes, mere supplies were not enough.

Still somewhat surprised ad upset by the news, Israel fell into his seat, arms crossed over his chest; at his side, Jordan sat, as calm as ever.

"Isolationism," France muttered, rubbing what little fuzz was on his face and looking confused.

"Yeah," Prussia snorted whilst rolling his eyes, "because that worked out _so well_ for him last time."

"_Verdammt,_ Gilbert," Germany growled, looking upset at the mention of a war that happened a little over a century ago.

"Ve," Italy began, his eyes closed tightly and his face illuminated by a smile, "maybe America wants some pastaaa!"

At his side, Romano looked ready to murder his brother. England understood that urge clearly.

"What do we do?" Canada asked quietly, barely managing to be heard above the swearing of Germany and Prussia; the arguments that had just broken out between the Middle Eastern countries; Mexico and Puerto Rico's arguments about music; and the loud yelling of Russia's sisters. England shrugged, hoping the lad knew what he was doing.

"We respect his wishes," was the only answer he had. At his side, France huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. When they finally managed to being the meeting back together, England tried to ignore the empty seat to his left.

….

Respecting America's wishes, much of the world watched as American soldiers were pulled out of their countries, while their own people were returned. It was enlightening to see so many people returning from the United States; it was also surprising seeing so many people there to begin with. Very slowly, step-by-step, the world watched as America pulled out its influence all over. The American Embassy in many countries was either completely abandoned or used as shelters. American goods, grown and made by Americans, were still sold, though at a higher price than before. Trading was an interesting experience as well: merchant ships weren't allowed within a certain distance of the American coasts and they had to be met by American ships.

To add to the world's surprise, borders were thrown up between America and its neighbors, Canada and South America. England watched the news every day when the when the walls separating the countries was being built and slowly thrown up. The wall separating America and Canada was made of an odd mixture of stone and cement, hardened after hours in the sun. The wall separating America from their southern neighbors was a mixture of cement and coquina.

England had spent the rest of the week trying to remember why that name, 'coquina', sounded familiar. It took a visit with Spain for him to remember Castillo De San Marcos in St. Augustine. Memories flooded back into his mind, memories of a time when he was the hero and America looked up to him.

His emotions began mirroring those of his people: confusion at the sudden withdrawal of the United States with only a few mentions here and there; wariness at what they were planning, if they were planning anything; and relief that American goods were still in the market.

Every now and then, whispers of something awful, some awful game and arena where people were sent to fight and die, was heard and, just as quickly, the rumours were squelched, making those who heard them believe that they were just whispered lies to spice up life. More than once, through the years, England had found himself reaching for a phone, wanting to call America and catch up on life, while, at the same time, knowing that he had wanted to separate himself from everyone, thus keeping England from actually dialing the number.

Occasionally, American channels would be viewed with the American president-a smiling man with gray eyes and brown hair-who greeted the world with youthful exuberance, further dismissing the mere idea that anything that wasn't ideal was happening in the United States. Every time the president came on, England found himself studying each man and woman standing near the president, trying to catch some sight of America. Each time, he'd leave the room feeling strangely empty.

**Well! You got this far so you have my congratulations! What do you think? In character? Too long? Believable? If I got anything wrong-insults, swearing, anything-feel free to tell me. Also, if you got any of the references then you are my new best friend!**


	2. the Finder

**75 years later**

The Mockingjay this. The girl on fire that.

If Psych hears one more person mention the girl on fire and the baker boy, she will not be responsible for her actions.

The cafeteria in District 13 isn't nearly as good as the District 2 but, hey, she was a runaway, she couldn't afford to be picky. She studies her food, wondering if the gray blobs were edible when the Capitol theme song comes on one of the televisions that are attached to a wooden shelf-thing that stands in the center of the cafeteria. Beside her, one of the few people that doesn't think she's going to sell the district out to the Peacekeepers, nudges her and points to the television, miming wildly.

Of course her best and only friend is an avox.

The stupid theme song continues playing until, finally, the symbol of the Capitol is shown and the tributes for the Quarter Quell are revealed. Of course it's Katniss, the girl in fire, that's shown most frequently. Her and lover boy's faces have practically covered every inch of anything that you can read, if you want to kill a few brain cells.

The interviews are ridiculous and a waste of time. The only reason she's even watching this stupid thing is because Pearl, her best friend/avox, loves staring at the Tributes' outfits and also because no one seems to have anytime to do anything nowadays. Ever since the announcement of the Quarter Quell, the higher-ups of District 13 have been running from one place to another, acting like the little soldiers they've been trained to be since day one.

Psyche yawns loudly, pointedly trying to piss Pearl off. It works: she casts a furious look at Psyche and punches her in the shoulder. Psyche, having grown up in the District famous for its Peacekeepers, hardly flinches, just flexes her shoulder to try and get the blood flowing through it. She knows there's going to be a bruise there, but she hardly cares.

After what feels like hours, the girl on fire appears, showing off her dress like another princess, no different than what she did for the Hunger Games interview. However, something different does happen: her dress catches fire and the glimmering princess dress vanishes and is replaced by a stunningly dark dress with wings the color of ink with bits of something sparkling within the dark expanse.

_Well, well, well, looks like we have a legitimate Mockingjay on our hands_.

Beside her, Pearls claps her hands in excitement, far more impressed with the little display than Psyche: she grew up in the warrior District, one of the few places that was buddy-buddy with the Capitol. There was close to nothing that could impress her. Again, she opted to yawn loudly, this time though, Pearl makes a point to ignore her, her blue eyes completely fixed on the screen.

Psyche makes a face, knowing she has just been ignored, and returns to jabbing her globby food with her fork. She doesn't look up until she hears the damning,

"-If it wasn't for the baby," spoken by wonder boy, somewhat bitterly. The reaction is instantaneous: Pearl, at her side, slaps her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and now filling with tears. On the screen, she can hear the gasps of the crowd and watches as the camera zooms in to look at the girl on fire.

Her eyes are wide and her mouth is slightly agape. As the crowd shouts for the games to be cancelled in honor for the 'mom-to-be', Psyche finds herself rolling her eyes at the very blatant lie. God, what was between the Capitol elites' heads? Hot air?

If it weren't for Pearl tearing up, Psyche would think that the Capitol has finally lost their marbles.

Minutes later, as all of the Tributes gather round and stand before the crowd (Psyche paying close attention to Brutus and Enobaria. She remembers them well from back home. Both of them were assholes) she watches as they all hold hands, showing unity and sympathy for the poor pregnant mama-to-be.

Of course, that's when the screen goes black, both from the Capitol's end and District 13's end.

Psyche swivels around in her chair, pointedly glaring at whoever decided to switch the television off. Pearl follows her lead, pouting adorably. Now Psyche levels her glare at the girl beside her. At 13, Pearl is 2 years younger than her and could get away with murder. _She_ could barely get away with swiping another piece of bread.

"Excuse you, we were watching that," Psyche snaps, returning her glare to the jerk in front of her. Boggs, the right-hand man to Coin herself, stands in front of them, remote in hand, and his cool brown eyes staring her down. He's attractive, she notes, but she can remember when she first got here and he had a son. The light has left his eyes since his death, replaced with a soldier's glare. Psyche remembers those looks well enough: she couldn't walk down the street without seeing at least three dozen of those.

"Coin wants to see you," he tells her calmly whilst standing at attention. It's in her best interest to nod quietly and obediently follow Coin's orders. After all, she was raised to silently follow orders like every good little soldier boy and girl. It's in her best interest to obey; it's in her own blood to rebel. Maybe that's why she made such a good rebel. Maybe that's how she made it all the way to District 13 from District 2.

_Or maybe you just got lucky_.

Neh. Either way she was alive. She might as well be polite to the people who didn't have to help her but did anyway.

Making a point to whine about being ordered away from her fabulous meal, Psyche pushes her food away, telling Pearl to guard it with her life, and follows Boggs out, feeling like when she was a little kid and she had gotten into trouble; her muscles tense and her mind automatically jumps to some of the punishment curtesy of District 2.

_They aren't like that_, she thinks as Boggs leads her down some halls and around a couple of corners. _They're military-based but they aren't as bad as District 2._

Somehow, that doesn't make her feel any better.

After another five minutes of them walking down halls, weaving in and out of small crowds, and turning down numerous more halls, the two finally find themselves in front of a metal door that, for the millionth time, Psyche wonders how they got that thing down in the tunnels. Especially without anyone finding out about them.

Boggs knocks twice, two hard and loud knocks, and the door falls open a crack. When the man on the other side sees its Boggs with Psyche in tow, the person opens the door further, allowing the two entrance into their secret lair. Psyche bows mockingly at the man, only earning a hard glare for her efforts.

"You shouldn't be so patronizing," a cool voice tells her. She blinks at the steely voice, her eyes roving towards the center of the room, finally falling on a woman with stern gray eyes and graying hair. Everything about her is gray, even the nice little military suit she wearing. Very monochromatic, Psyche thinks, very tempted to say it aloud. But one look from Coin reminds Psyche that she enjoys breathing and that to continue doing so, she needs to guard her words. "Someone might take it the wrong way one of these days."

"People are insulted by me breathing," she informs Coin, her gaze flitting around the room and falling on multiple people holding weapons that look Capitol-made and endorsed. A couple of them remind her of weapons she'd seen in the 'unauthorized' training facility back home. "I highly doubt me throwing around an irreverent bow here and there will make people hate me less."

"You never know," Was the snide reply from someone in the crowd. Psyche had noticed her when she entered the room, but quickly realized that the girl was a grunt and very unimportant in the field.

"And who are you?" She snarks back with a smirk when the girl's face turns a very unattractive shade of red. "Possibly someone who-"

"Stop before you say something that you will no doubt regret," Coin orders, dragging Psyche's attention away from the glaring girl and towards the head of District 13.

"I think you'll find that I regret very little," Psyche informs Coin, trying not to be completely disrespectful. Maybe it's her tone? Neh. Whatever.

Coin nods once, looks back at whatever's on the table that her and her minions are surrounding, and then looks back at Psyche, her eyes giving nothing away. "What do you know about history?"

"Can you be a little more specific?" She knows about the Dark Days and the earlier days of the rebellion. She knows about the other Districts and some of their history. They were always taught that in school. They were taught that when every other District rebelled, theirs was the one that remained loyal. Little before the Dark Days was taught, leaving every student with the idea that there wasn't much before the Capitol regime. Psyche, though, she kind of doubts that. There always had to be something before them, right? They couldn't have just sprung up from nothing. A person needs a person to _be_, to exist. She doesn't know much about the government now ruling, but she did know that they had come from something. Or, at least, those in power had to have come from something. Snow was an asshole but he was once a baby asshole. Probably.

"Do you know anything about this landmass before the Dark Days? Before the Capitol itself?"

She raises an eyebrow and reaches for a curl at her shoulder, "we're not exactly taught about the days before the Capitol. We're taught that something awful happened to the world and that Panem was created for the survivors. Then, after a rebellion, the Capitol of the time decided to create a means so that the Districts wouldn't rebel again."

"The Hunger Games," Coin finishes with a nod towards Boggs. She glances around the room once before calling, "everyone, please leave. I would like a word with Ms.-"

"Hunter," Psyche finishes, trying not to snicker at the obvious pause in the Director's tone. It was good to know that Coin wasn't knowledgeable about everything. Coin nods once and then continues,

"Ms. Hunter in private."

There's a very definite pause as everyone in the room looks from one person to the other that's actually kind of funny. It's the first time since she got here that she's seen any type of questioning of orders. It's not _chaos_, but it's a start.

"Now," this order, practically muttered, is the one that earns the sound of scrambling feet, chairs against the ground, and the rustling of papers. It's good to know that Psyche wasn't the only on afraid of Coin. Boggs hesitates at the door, casting a questioning look at Coin. "Yes," she tells him, "You too. I would like a word with Ms. Hunter alone."

Boggs bobs his head dutifully and turns to leave. Psyche, because it feels so good, smiles and gives a two-fingered wave to the grunt that she'd talk to earlier, smiling widely as she glares at her.

Finally, everyone files out, leaving Psyche alone with Coin. The runaway speaks up first,

"Geez, I'm flattered and everything but, uhh, what am I doing here?"

Coin ignores her words and just studies her, like a cat would look at a cornered mouse. Finally, she speaks, "So, you know practically nothing B.D.D?"

"Of course not. No one knows about B.D.D," She answers, slightly annoyed at Coin's tone.

"You mean," Coin corrects quietly and, for some reason, Psyche feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. There's something about this woman that she doesn't trust altogether. "You were never taught about this?"

"I think I just said that," Psyche responds dryly. Again, the silence stretches into something uncomfortable.

"What I'm about to tell you," Coin begins quietly, her eyes never straying too far from Psyche's. "You are not permitted to tell anyone. Not even your avox friend."

"Her name's Pearl."

"Whatever her name may be," Coin continues, sounding somewhat exasperated, "she is not allowed to know about this. _No one must know_. Do I make myself clear?"

"So," Psyche begins slowly, drawing out the word and wanting to get some rise out of the Director. She doesn't know why. Chances are, baiting Coin would be like baiting a Capitol Mutt: dangerous. But if she can get a rise out of Coin, then maybe she can get on some even footing with the woman. At the very least _some _power. "You're about to tell me some awe-inspiring story that I'm not allowed to tell anyone. Me. The District 2 Mutt who may or may not betray you. Did you talk to your yes-man about this? I bet he wasn't happy. He probably called you insane. Or whatever nicer word that he could think of."

"_Do you understand me?"_

"_Yes_, okay? I heard you. I understand you. No one must know. No one will know. I get it, alright?"

Coin studies her for a full minute, her gray eyes never wavering, making Psyche feel even more uncomfortable. Finally, she nods before glancing back at the table covered in maps. The silence stretches out long enough that Psyche's kind of tempted to walk out the door. She doesn't and, after a brief pause, Coin continues,

"Before the Dark Days, before Panem, and before the Capitol, there was the United States. America. This country started out a colony-13, to be exact. These colonies were apart of much larger countries of the time. Eventually, though, these colonies revolted, separating from their mother countries and forming their own united country. This country lasted for hundreds of years, allying themselves with former enemies and friends alike. This country was once a vital spot for both tourism… and terrorism and was held together by a document known as the Constitution, a set of rules, boundaries for the government of the time."

Coin stops there, eyeing Psyche as though waiting for some kind of allowance to go on. For her part, Psyche just stared at Coin, her mind racing, hundreds of questions bouncing off of the edges of her mind. Finally, though, she spoke,

"Constant… constant two men? What even is that? A-and tourism. Isn't that the same thing as terrorism? What, is it like evil capitol people touring the Districts and blowing things up?"

Coin begins patiently, "Con-sti-too-_shun_, Hunter, not 'constant two men'. This was a document written by a group of men known as the 'founding fathers', some of the original leaders of the young country. These men, after breaking away from a country that had a king, didn't want that type of government. So they created a democratic-type government, a place where the country wasn't controlled by a figure-head, but by the people. This new government was split into 3 branches: the legislative branch, the executive branch, and, finally, the judicial branch. The legislative branch consisted of the House of Representatives and the Senate, together forming what was known as Congress. This was the law making branch. Then there was executive branch which dealt with enforcing the laws passed by the legislative branch, headed by the President-"

"President?" Psyche interrupts, feeling almost guilty at interrupting Coin's spiel. "Like President _Snow_? That's what the founding fathers had in mind for us? To be ruled by people like _them_? If that was their idea then maybe it wasn't so great after all," the statement ends on a note of contempt, with her hands clenched tightly.

Coin raises an eyebrow, "I can assure you, the government system we have now was the farthest thing from what the founding fathers had wanted."

Psyche nods and remains quiet, waiting for Coin to continue her lecture. Finally, she does, "as I was saying, the executive branch enforced the laws and was headed by the president. Now, the judicial branch was slightly different than either the legislative branch or the executive branch: whereas the members of the first two branches were voted on by the people, the members of the judicial branch were picked by the President. They were judges."

"So, it ranks from the law makers, to the law enforcers, to the punishers of those who broke the laws," Psyche surmises, confused by some of the new words and phrases and… well, everything.

"In an essence, yes," Coin answers, her tone neutral.

"Well, what happened?"

Coin remains silent, her gaze fixed on something that Psyche can't see. Finally, she fixes her steely gaze on Psyche, "many things. Elected leaders, the people, laws and rules passed. And then, a great war that affected us more than any other country. We closed ourselves off from the others. It was a… a way of protecting ourselves."

"And looked how well that worked," Psyche mutters somewhat bitterly, walking towards the middle of the room, towards the table. Atop the table sits maps and detailed plans of maps. Psyche pays little attention to what's written on the maps. "Why do you want me here? I mean, I'm grateful that you didn't kill me on sight, but why didn't you?"

"How did you manage to make the journey from District 2 to District 13?" Coin asks, completely ignoring Psyche's question. For which, of course, she can't say anything against because Coin's the leader.

"Sweet talking, great timing, excellent survival skills, and _Fortes fortuna iuvat," _Psyche answers somewhat flippantly. When Coin just stares at her with those unfathomable gray eyes, Psyche sighs dramatically, but answers honestly, "luck. A lot of luck. And some white lies on my part. We're taught to fight in District 2 and fighting doesn't always involve fists, though there are some very large idiots out there that like to think otherwise."

"That language you just spoke, how did you know it?" Again, Coin appears to ignore practically everything she says in favor of asking her own questions. Psyche just sighs loudly, but goes along with it.

"A lot of District 2 is based on Roman culture, or as much of Roman culture as we know about. Our names, a lot of the clothes we wear, our attitudes towards war, and what we're taught." Here, Psyche rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "A lot of us are taught some Latin phrases pertaining to war and battles and death: _victis honor_, _morituri te salutamus_, _fortes fortuna iuvat _before we're even taught to say 'mother' and 'father'. The unofficial motto of District 2 is, 'eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die!' There's a reason that so many Peacekeepers come from District 2: it's because we have no qualms with fighting and dying; more often than not it seems like a lot of people got off from it."

Based on the look Coin shoots her, at this point a normal person would snort and look derisively at the ways of District 2. But it's Coin so she just looks morbidly amused.

"Why did you come here?" She finally asks.

Psyche raises an eyebrow, wondering when this meeting became a sharing type-thing.

"I told you," Psyche answers with a shrug, "District 2 has this odd habit of taking older Roman traditions and putting them into daily use. One tradition was marrying girls off to men older than them, especially in higher standing families to keep traditions within the families. The man my parents set me up with was less than desirable, so I left."

"Why did you find him unsuitable?"

Now Psyche feels herself tense, not liking the line of questions and wanting to stop it here. Unfortunately, to stay on Coin's good side (if she even had one), she had to tell the truth. Her words are tense, stiff, and come out quickly,

"I walked into a room that he had just left and found his avox and pet dog practically curled up in a ball, beaten. That turned me off a bit to my fiancé-to-be and decided I'd be better off taking my chances in the wild than with him."

"So you ran?" Coin responds coolly, her voice quiet. Psyche feels a small ball of rage unfurl within her chest. Yeah, nice for Coin to judge her after spending her entire life into this nice little hidey-hole of a District, buried beneath the earth. Of all people, she was not going to be judged by Coin.

"We're taught to fight our own battles, to stand for ourselves, and come up with our own decisions to our problems. I'd lost my favorite brother in the 71st Games and my eldest brother happily displayed every medal he'd earned from his job as a peacekeeper. Neither would be able to help me, so I had to find my own solution. And I did. While Panem watched the 74th Hunger Games, I made my escape. I'd heard rumors from some people about District 13 and I remembered the Panem map that we had been told to memorize in school. Yes, I ran, but I saw no other way out."

"That doesn't sound very warrior-like."

"I am not taking soldier lessons from a woman that's spent her entire life below ground-level," Psyche snaps, knowing that she may have gone too far and not caring. Her hands are fisted tightly, her nails digging into her palms, and she wants to throw something heavy at Coin's expressionless face that still somehow seems like it's judging her.

Of course, Coin ignores what she just said and, if it weren't for the tense set of her lips and the icy flash in her eyes, Psyche would think that Coin hadn't heard what she just said. Coin continues,

"Before the Dark Days," Coin begins, "the world consisted of 7 continents, 5 major oceans, 196 countries, and billions of people. The continents were Africa, Antarctica, Asia, Australia, Europe, North America, and South America. What is now known as Panem was once called North America-a landmass which consisted of 50 states, each with their own state governments and flags."

"But there are only 12-13 Districts," Psyche argues, quickly correcting herself. "If they were based off of the original _50 states_, as you say, then shouldn't there be more districts?"

Coin raises an eyebrow, "would you prefer more Tributes?"

Psyche winced at the thought of the 24 Tributes turning into 100 Tributes, "No, ma'am."

"Once upon a time, these 196 countries-all countries, in fact, past or present- had a human personification," Coin continues as though this new fact was no big deal. Psyche stares at the head of District 13 with a slack jaw, wondering if maybe she hadn't just heard what her ears were telling her they just heard.

"I-I'm sorry, when you say 'human personifications', you mean-"

"Each country was represented by a person. Themselves, to be exact. With their own names, and personalities, and such."

"Each country… was a person."

"Yes."

"Like a real flesh and blood person."

"Yes."

"A person."

"Yes."

"Like, I could reach out and smack them if I wanted to."

"Though I wouldn't suggest doing so, yes."

"…. A real person."

"_Yes_," Coin snaps, seeming to lose her patients. "Yes, alright? A real flesh and blood person that you could reach out and touch. Each country was shaped by their people and their land. During a war, the country's exterior would reflect this. Do you understand?"

"… I'll be perfectly honest with you. You lost me at the whole, 'every country was a person' bit."

"Ms. Hunter!" Coin snaps, her mask breaking for the first time since their meeting. "I need you to focus. What I'm about to ask you to do is very dangerous and no one-I repeat _no one_-must know about this. This is confidential."

"O-okay. I'll keep your secret about countries and country-people and history and stuff. Again, what does this have to do with me?"

"We-that is I, and a choice few whom I trust-believe we know the whereabouts to where the personification of this country is."

"You know where North America is?"

"No. We know where _America_ is."

Psyche stares blankly at Coin. She is aware of the fact that, chances are, she's pissing the Head off, but still. It's really hard to come to grasp with the fact that the landmass that they were currently on was also a human. This entire story sounds like something that the Capitol would make up for the sake of it. Like making up some romance to survive the Hunger Games. Or a pregnancy.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that too far off from what she's been hearing lately.

"What kind of a name is _America_?"

"The name comes from an old explorer who some believe first found the North/South American continents. His name was Amerigo Vespucci, an Italian explorer during the 15th and 16th century. His name, Amerigo, is where we got 'America'."

"… People back then had weird names."

"Some might say the same thing about you, _Psyche_."

For her part, Psyche opens and closes her mouth, trying to come up with an appropriate response. None come to mind. Finally she sighs.

"Okay, so you _might_ know where 'America' is. That's awesome. What does this have to do with me?" Suddenly, strangely enough, her mind stumbles towards the Quarter Quell and the District's reaction to it. "Do-does the Quarter Quell have anything to do with this, ma'am?"

Coin raises an eyebrow and looks, for a second, like Psyche's just impressed her. Then the mask is back and Psyche is staring into a cold, gray expanse of nothingness.

Wow, she never knew she was this poetic.

"The Quarter Quell is the beginning to what we hope is a new rebellion," Coin answers. "Another shot at a Panem without leaders like President Snow or his predecessors."

Psyche snorts, the District 2 mutt rising to the surface, "yeah. Because that worked out so well the last time."

Coin's mask hardens, letting Psyche know that she's just hit a nerve, "we were… ill-prepared last time, I admit-"

"And, with all due respect ma'am, what makes you think you're ready now?"

"We have a symbol."

"A symbol…" Psyche trails off, her mind jumbled with all this new information. Her mind plays with the word symbol for a second, imaging an instrument for the strangest of reasons. Instrument turns to singing, singing turns to chirping, and chirping turns into birds. Suddenly, the answer seems so blatantly obvious that Psyche wants to smack herself. Singing, bird, Mockingjay-

"Katniss Everdeen," she answers irritably. Somehow, everything always seems to go back to the Girl on Fire. Perfect. "That's your symbol. Katniss Everdeen. A nobody from District 12 whose only claim to fame is because her _boyfriend_ can spin a tale. Her."

"You didn't see her Game, did you?"

"I was a little preoccupied with leaving District 2," Psyche answers, swallowing her irritation and forcing her own mask of sorts over her expression, "I heard about it, though. The berry thing? That was a great idea. The romance was a great idea, too."

"The Districts see her as a sign, as Hope. They see her as a symbol of freedom, of a new chance-those berries, her pin, their romance. People are interesting: they won't fight until someone steps forward first. Katniss Everdeen stepped forward when she took those berries. They're willing to fight as long as they have something to rally behind."

"Who talked you into this?" Psyche finally asks, not even sure why she should care. The tyranny of the Capitol was being questioned. That was awesome. But this…

Of course, she was only 15. What would a 15 year-old know about planning a rebellion?

"That is none of your concern," Coin answers coolly, slowly making her way towards the table that Psyche was leaning against. "As I was saying, this Quarter Quell is a great advantage for us, the rebels. This is our chance. With the Districts behind us-"

"Whoa, whoa," Psyche interrupts, shaking her head and pushing herself off of the table she'd been leaning against. "District_s_? As in all of them? Do you really think that District 2 will help you? They're the mutts of the Capitol! They're loyal (self-serving) and won't fight against the Capitol. Especially with history the way it is! Not only that, do you honestly expect District 2 to work with _District 4? _No. there's too much bad blood there. They may be Career Districts, but both Districts have always stabbed the other in the back. They wouldn't share a drink, let alone work together!"

"Do you share this distrust?"

"Just because I ran away from my home doesn't mean I've run away from what I've been taught," Psyche replies flatly, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "My brother was killed by the District 4 female Tribute, who was then killed by the District 2 female Tribute. Like I said, bad blood runs too deep for us to just set it aside on the off chance that we'll actually win a rebellion."

"So, we won't be expecting any help from District 2?" Coin asks as though she's surprised by the answer. Psyche snorts,

"No. Don't expect any help from the Capitol's mutts. Now that we've got that out of the way," here, Psyche leans forward, her chin resting on her palms and her elbows resting on the table, "what am I doing here? My opinions, history, and lack of knowledge on the history of _America_ have been clearly shown. What do you need me for?"

Coin studies her a moment longer. Finally, she speaks,

"You came from District 2, all the way to District 13 based on a rumor that you heard. So, now we have another destination in mind for you, based on a rumor _we've_ heard." Coin leans forward, reaching for a map. Having studied maps her entire life, Psyche rolls her eyes at what she thinks is another pointless geography lesson. However, the map Coin pulls out is something that she's never seen before. Coin takes the unfamiliar map and places it right next to the map engraved in her memory.

Psyche hesitates, but reaches out towards the odd map, wanting to brush her fingers against the surface.

"What-" she begins, only to be cut off by Coin.

"This is an old map. This is America before it was split up into Districts. The 50 states-Alaska and Hawaii being those two islands-are shown as well as the 'State lines' and their capitols."

"What's that place up there?" Psyche asks, pointing to the landmass north of 'America.'

"That's what was known as 'Canada'," Coin tells her as Psyche's finger trails across the 'State lines.' "To the south of America was, well, South America."

"Okay, then, the Ancients weren't that creative with names. Duly noted. What does this have to do with me? And 'America', as you say, what does this have to do with it?"

"_Him_," Coin corrects, "America is represented by a tall male with fair hair, blue eyes, and the build of either a swimmer from District 4 or a soldier from District 2, the reports aren't clear."

"Okay, where do these 'claims' say America is?"

"Here," Coin answers, pointing to a 'state' not very far from District 13. "The 'Ancients', as you call them, once called this place 'Washington' and it was used as the Capitol of country. Many important meetings and decisions were held and decided here. The President lived here."

"Aaand you think the current government would be stupid enough to hide him in the most obvious of places?"

"I think it's worse than that," Coin answers, her tone saying that 'worse' was not worse at all. If anything, it was the best news she's heard in years. "I think that the current government placed America in one of the most obvious places imaginable: the Capitol of old America, in the building that once housed the President."

"But why would the government-… it's a pride thing, isn't it? They got so caught up in everything and they kept him there for a sense of irony and to hit him where it hurts, didn't they?" Well, Psyche decides irritably, they may be the monsters who created and continue the Hunger Games, but they were human, in the most distorted way possible. Of course they would want to show off a little bit. Why not, right?

Coin nods but continues, "We know where he is. We know who we want to use to get him out, and we know where we'll send him once he is out."

"Yes to the first," Psyche drawls amicably. "'Who'? To the second and 'Where'? To the third."

Coin raises an eyebrow-she's done that a lot lately-and answers, "I would think the answer to the second question would be obvious and as for the third question, what country, outside of our current government's jurisdiction, is closest?"

"… Canada?"

"Correct."

"Umm… who's getting the guy?"

Coin raises an eyebrow, "wait, _me_? What makes you think that I can-"

"You _did_ come here from District 2."

"That was luck!"

"Could you do it again?"

"I-maybe? If I had the appropriate tools and things and a layout of the land and a layout of where I'm going and weapons, then _maybe_ I could get there."

"How long do you think it would take you?"

"I don't-a week, maybe two or three. I don't know."

Coin studies her a moment longer, her eyes expressionless, her gaze seeming to be fixed on something that Psyche can't feel. Finally, she breaks her gaze and nods, looking back down at the map.

"It's time for you to make your contribution to District 13," Coin tells her, causing her to straighten up and fall into the soldier's stance she had learned back home. "You have a job: go to D.C., find America, and get him across the American/Canadian border, without getting caught."

"… Thaaat doesn't seem so hard."

Coin nods sharply and walks to the door where Boggs, no doubt, is waiting. Psyche blinks, trying to get Coin's attention,

"Wait, so… Can you explain all of this to me one more time, just to make sure I got it?"

**Well, this was a long one. A lot longer than I expected it to be. Anyways, Merry Christmas and what do ya'll think?**


	3. The Journey

**Wooo! Chapter 3!**

The one good thing about Psyche's little journey, she'll admit, is that it's a way for her to put things into perspective.

The sensory overload of all things green and brown and forest-y and wet and just-_bleh_. The longer Psyche ventures deeper into this unknown frontier, the more she realizes that her adventure to 13 had been nothing but luck.

The sounds that surround her-the rushing water, the chirping birds, the droning of insects-have been her only companions on this stupid journey and Psyche finds herself wondering if, when she makes it back to District 13 (and she knows she will. One way or another, she will make it back), she'll have lost her mind. Gone insane. Dropped off the deep end. She wonders if, by then, she'll start holding conversations with herself. She sincerely hopes not. She's learned, after 15 years in District 2, that any sign of a destabilized, malfunctioning mind is met with severe consequences: a soldier or mason with a weak mind is more dangerous than anyone and is treated as seen fit-with either a trip to a District Ward (and the _conditions_ there are well-known throughout 2) or the person is sent into the surrounding woods for nature to take care of them.

There is no room for any weaknesses back home.

"But you're not at home," she mutters aloud to herself, side-stepping a few low hanging branches. She literally stops in place when she realizes what she said.

I'm talking to myself. I'm actually talking to myself.

_Nooo_, her mind argues, _you're giving yourself a pep talk!_

She groans, stomps her feet, but continues forward, glancing down at her gloved hand to make sure she's going the right way.

When she left 13, she thought that she was going to be handed a few weapons, some rope, and told to march on her merry way. Instead, they handed her two daggers (her choice weapon), a comfortable belt that wraps around her waist with the actual sheath being situated behind her, resting on her lower back (a great reach), and a nice bow (which people have been using long before the girl on fire even shot her first arrow) with an array of arrows. In her bag, with the strap thrown comfortably over her shoulder with the bag resting against her hip, rests an interesting assortment of technology that the geniuses back at 13 want her to try: a small machine-like thing that will take in liquid of any kind and turn it into suitable drinking water; two interesting sphere objects that, if they work, will create life-size projections of her; a light sleeper for her to curl up in when she's sleeping in a tree at night; rope; some matches; and, most importantly, food. There is enough food, she hopes, to last her until she reaches 'D.C.' and, finally, they created an outfit which they _hope_ will protect her from the frigid temperatures because, apparently, they couldn't have picked a better time to start a rebellion than when the landscape will start freezing over with snow!

Her District was one that was perpetually hot, with 3 seasons: hot, rainy, smoldering. Suffice to say, she isn't used to the cold. And, to her, anything dropping below 12 degrees Celsius was cold.

Her 'uniform', as they call it, is comfortable. The first layer is a 'thermal', long-sleeved shirt that molds to her figure and a pair of pants, they said, that would absorb her own body heat and reflect it back when needed; the second layer is a slightly baggier coat with a lining to protect her neck and a larger pair of pants; the final layer is a District 13 military uniform that hangs off of her, from the overcoat to the baggy jeans, completely hiding any figure she may have and giving her the appearance of a short guy. Her neck is also protected by a 'scarf' that they had no doubt snatched off some homeless 13 resident without them knowing.

All of it is black. And heavy.

"You can make something that creates live projections of me, yet you can make me a coat that's light," she grumbles aloud, watching as her breath ghosts in front of her. The sun is close to setting, giving her about another hour in a half, maybe even two hours more of walking. Mercifully, the landscape around her consists predominantly of trees and a river, every now and again, so she can get some shut eye later. With a sigh that no one can hear, she reaches for the scarf at her neck and lifts it up to cover her nose and everything below that.

The one thing that truly and completely sucks about all of this is that this little adventure gives her plenty of time to think about her life from what went wrong, to every other questionable decision she's ever made on her life.

It also gives her plenty of time to think about Cassio and Octavius.

She forces any thoughts about her brothers away and glances down at her glove where the geniuses at 13 had put a compass in the palm. Again, they can do all of this and yet they can make anything _lighter?!_

Her compass-the needle pointing northeast, exactly where she needs to go-reminds her that she has a mission and the needle is pointing to the 'X' mark that she's looking for.

_America,_ her mind tells her, _his name is America_.

With everything bouncing around in her head, Psyche knows that this adventure cannot end quickly enough.

….

The meeting continues as it always has: Germany trying to call order to every other country, France and his inane attempts at flirting, Austria and Prussia arguing about one thing or another, Hungary glaring at the two in irritated disgust, the Tomato brothers arguing, and just overall chaos.

England reaches for his bottle of water, chugs about half of it down, and leans back, watching as this chaos ensues around him.

"For God's sake," Germany finally shouts above the crowd, "shut-up!"

Very slowly, the uproar dims, and the voices grow quiet and everyone turns to stare at Germany. The country in question clears his throat and looks down at the table, no doubt staring at whatever notes he's written. His ears are red. Even from the distance, England can see that.

"Well little brother," Prussia begins, somewhat mockingly, "what is it that you want to say?"

"Shut-up," Germany growls at his older brother, the tension in the room heightening. Hungary glares at Prussia and leans forward to whisper something in his ear, no doubting threatening him with physical harm. Prussia's shoulders droop slightly before that cocky smirk returns.

Before he has the chance to say anything, though, Japan interrupts what no doubt promises to be another entertaining fight between the brothers.

"Has anyone else heard about the rumours with America? And his people?"

Around England, everyone begins muttering, many of them having heard the rumours mentioned.

"I think it's ridiculous," England announces over the slowly growing voices, crossing his legs. "There's nothing to back these insane claims and whoever made them up in the first place has clearly gone 'round the bend."

"I agree with _Angleterre_," declares the Toad, sounding legitimately angry. England glances at his ally to see that his eyes are narrowed and his brow furrowed. "These rumours are _ridicule_. There is no way _Amérique _would allow that to happen to his people."

"The Toad is right," England drawls, still leaning back in his chair, now with his arms crossed. "America was-_is_ obnoxious, rude, and childish, but when it comes to his people, he wouldn't let anyone hurt them."

As soon as he says that, England watches as a range of emotions play across Germany's face. He doesn't know what that means, but he chooses to ignore that and continues,

"Those rumours are just that: rumours," he tells the others firmly. "This-this _arena_ where people are sent to die. There is no substantial evidence behind this!"

"Has anyone talked to him lately?" Russia asks with his head tilted curiously to the side as he stares pointedly from England to France to someone behind them. England frowns and glances over his shoulder to see Canada sitting, his polar bear being hugged tightly to his chest.

"What about you, aru?" China asks Russia curiously.

"I believe that time changes even the most unchangeable dispositions," Russia answers neutrally, leaning back in his seat. Finally, he heaves a heavy sigh and shakes his head, "how would anyone expect me to be the one to talk to him? He and I were never on the best of terms. Anyways, he's closed himself off, we're still getting our exports from them, and there's no war. I don't see how what he does within his own borders has anything to do with us."

Around the table, England watches as the others nod and mutter their agreement with Russia's views.

"Well said," Mexico mutters from his seat, raising his water bottle in a salute to Russia.

"Here, here," a few other countries chime in quietly, also raising their own bottles. England rolls his eyes at them but can't really find himself disagreeing with the statement.

"Now," he says while leaning forward in his seat. "About healthcare…

…

The meeting ends much like how it began: everyone finding something to argue about with someone else.

Despite himself, Germany can't say that he's entirely surprised with how things turn out with the meeting. Many of the countries in the room tend to shift towards conflict of some kind: the older countries because it was what they're used to; the younger countries because they were full of fire and want some way to extinguish some of it.

For his part, Germany easily tires of fighting.

When the meeting is adjourned, he catches Arthur's eye, silently asking for a moment after the meeting. Arthur inclines his head, agreeing.

As everyone files out of the room, Feliciano saying he'll wait outside for Germany, Arthur slowly makes his way towards Germany. The two once great Empires wait until the room is empty before Arthur decides to break the silence,

"What is it you want, Ludwig?" He asks, slipping into a more informal manner.

Ludwig picks up on this and decides to copy his manner, "Arthur, I respect your views and opinions, especially vhen it comes to your colonies-or former colonies."

Arthur raises an eyebrow expectantly. Ludwig sighs and runs a hand through his hair,

"Do you really believe vhat you said earlier? About, sometimes, rumours being too outlandish to believe?"

Arthur sighs and shakes his head, "is this what you asked me to stay about? My opinion about the lad I raised and know better than almost anyone sending his children, his people into an arena to kill one another?"

"A country must follow their leaders," Ludwig reminds his friend pointedly. Arthur nods, understanding lighting his features. "Sometimes the vill of the leader outweighs the vill of the country."

"Alfred would fight," Arthur argues, "if he thought that any leader would knowingly hurt his people, he wouldn't stand for it. He'd find whatever rebel group is out there and join them in a second. Surrender isn't in his nature."

"Yes," Ludwig allows reluctantly, "he vould. But sometimes there isn't that choice. Look, Arthur, at times I find myself agreeing with your assessment that these rumours do seem a little out there, a little too impossible to believe. But, then I remember other rumours that seemed to impossible, too horrible too believe. Sometimes it seems like humans find terrible ways to subjugate their fellow people."

"Ludwig, it's not like that," Arthur responds, somewhat sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "These rumours aren't-they don't-"

"Neither did the other vones," Ludwig counters easily when it looks like Arthur's about to argue the point with him. "These types of rumours never seem to have much veight until someone gives enough proof to support it."

"Then what do you suggest?" Arthur asks, eyeing the German curiously. Ludwig sighs and rubs the back of his neck.

"I-I do not know. Perhaps getting someone behind their borders to see?"

"Spying," Arthur responds flatly, not liking this idea, "you're talking about sending a spy into a neutral country."

"I do not like the idea much," Germany admits, "but ve need to see if these rumours are true. Ve cannot stand idly by if these are true, and if they're not? Then no one's to know."

Arthur studies the German for a second before running a hand through his hair and then nods, looking reluctant.

"I see what you're talking about," Arthur answers slowly, "and I can understand the need to know if these are true or not. I'll talk to my bosses and see if they'll agree with it, while you do the same with yours." Watching Ludwig nod, another question comes to Arthur's mind, "Ludwig, why are you so worried about America? I was never under the impression that you two were particularly close."

Ludwig remains silent long enough that Arthur wonders of he should leave. Finally, Ludwig answer, "Alfred, in many vays, reminds me of my _bruder_: irritating, obnoxious, and a head that seems far too large to balance on his head," Ludwig trails off but then looks Arthur straight in the eye, "but I vould trust him with my life. More than vonce, Alfred has shown that he vould act the 'hero' vhen needed and, sometimes, the hero vas vhat ve needed." Ludwig shakes his head, his expression not _frowning,_ exactly, but not smiling. "Alfred is that infuriating little _bruder_ that you vant to hate, but if someone hurt them you vould not think twice about defending him."

Arthur studies him a moment longer and Ludwig just stares calmly back. Finally, Arthur nods and holds out his hand. Though he is clearly surprised by the action, Ludwig reaches for Arthur's hand and shakes it, two strong pumps.

Arthur turns to believe and stops at the door to look at Ludwig over his shoulder. "It's good to be fighting _with_ you instead of against you," Arthur tells him and, feeling too friendly, finds himself adding a somewhat teasing, "_Jerry._"

Ludwig grumbles under his breath when Arthur leaves, wondering why he even bothers with people in general.

….

_Leaving your District was a crime punishable by death. _

_As a child, though, Psyche never took too much in store for what was and wasn't allowed. She enjoyed the thrill of the challenge and the feeling of euphoria when she got away with whatever it was- it was the best feeling in the world. _

_Which is why, when she found that hole in the fence that separated her District from the forests, she had no problem with dragging her best friend with her into an adventure. _

_Her and Felix were the best of friends but were separated by the very obvious, metaphoric line: Psyche was born in the section of the District where fighting was the most important thing they learned; Felix was born in the section where masonry was the skill that was most required. Though the two sides were hardly enemies, there were still misconceptions about each._

_It didn't help that Psyche's side was the 'ruling' side, if there was one. _

_Somehow, though, the two became the best of friends and Felix would follow his adrenaline-junkie friend wherever she went. _

_When Psyche found the hole, she told her friend. That night, when the District was silent with sleep, the two had snuck out of their respective homes and ventured outside of their District. They didn't know how far they'd traveled until they came upon anther fence. Psyche reached out to touch it but was stopped by Felix. At her irritated glare, he held a finger to his lip and told her to listen. When she did, she heard some kind of buzzing, as though they're were Tracker jackers around them. The two shared a look and then ran back to their District in the direction they had come. _

_They made it home before anyone had risen and none were the wiser about their adventure. Weeks went by, the two sneaking out of their homes three times a week to explore the forest outside their District. Many times, Psyche snuck out with her bow and the two would spend hours outside the District, talking about anything because there was no need to fear being overheard. _

_One day, while Psyche was away training, Felix, feeling his own surge of adventure, decided to do the impossible: sneak out of the District during the day and rest beside the lake that the two had stumbled upon during one of their escapades. _

_When Psyche returned home later that day, she heard rumors that one of the Masons had lost their child. Fearing the worst, Psyche waited for the Peacekeepers to switch duties-leaving the fence unguarded for almost five minutes-and then ran through the hole, hoping that she was overreacting. _

_She spent the next few hours watching the sun sink lower and lower, searching for her friend, calling out his name, and wondering if she would ever find him. Finally, she stumbled upon the lake. As she crouched by the lake to drink some water, she saw, off to the side, something that looked a lot like blood._

_With a heavy stone in hand, she stood and began searching the surrounding area, following the trails of blood that had been left behind by some poor soul. As the splotches of blood got thicker and thicker, she found herself worried, not wanting to find what she suspected the blood meant._

_She soon came upon a large bush. Curled in a tight ball beneath the shrub rested her friend. _

_Psyche dropped her makeshift weapon and stumbled forward, frantically checking her friend's body to make sure that he was still alive. She saw large scratches across his arms and legs, his shirt was torn to near oblivion, and he was covered in blood._

"_Felix," she mumbled, reaching forward and shaking him. His only response was a low groan. Panicking, she shook him harder, trying to get him to open his eyes. "Come on, Felix, wake up!"_

_Again, he only groaned but Psyche was struck with an idea: she tore away is ruined shirt and began tearing it into little bandages. Wrapping his wounds up as best she could, she slowly pulled him up from his fetal position and threw one of his arms over her shoulder. Wrapping the arm closest to his body around his waist, she slowly trudged home, grateful for the muscle she had gained from training._

_When she finally got him back to the District fence, she lowered him onto the ground and fell to her knees, made her way into the District, and then turned to drag him through the hole that she had just crawled through. She then wrapped his arm back around her neck and practically dragged him towards the closest thing the District had to a medic. _

_When she reached the medic, the side that he'd been leaning on and her hands were practically covered in blood. The medics took one look at her friend and then had untangled him from her arms. _

_She had been waiting by the medic's bay when she was called to the Head Peacekeeper of the district-Julius Bellum. She was taken to sit before him where he asked her where she had found him, why he had left the District, and how she knew where he'd be. Looking back, she should have made up some story so neither would be suspected of leaving the District repeatedly before. However, she was exhausted, covered in her friend's blood, scratches of her own, and she was practically shaking. So, she told him the truth. She didn't tell him about the hole, only that her and Felix had managed to get out of the District and had spent some time outside of the District. Peacekeeper Bellum had stared at her for a minute before nodding slowly and looking as though he was trying to decide what to do with her. _

_He called her father in. Right then was when she should have realized something was wrong. But she hadn't. She had just been nervous about her father finding out about her escapades-he was never a very gentle man, and often showed little patients with his children. He was also a higher-up in the District, something that made him sharper due to how he wanted people to see him. _

_The two ordered her out of the room and into the hallway, where she waited for what felt like years. Finally, her father walked out, his face hard. He didn't once glance back at her as he strode down the hall and out the door. Peacekeeper Bellum also left his room and had ordered Psyche to follow him. She had done so, dragging her feet and fighting back her exhaustion. _

_She was led towards the District Center, where marriages, parties, and meetings were most often held. When they finally got there, another Peacekeeper met them, as did a slowly growing crowd of people. Peacekeeper Bellum ordered one of the other Peacekeepers to guard her. As the Peacekeeper in question tied placed his hand on her shoulder as a restraint, Psyche's exhaustion evaporated, leaving her with a feeling of foreboding._

"_Leaving your District is a crime punishable by death," Peacekeeper Bellum stared, making Psyche's entire body completely still. "But," Bellum continued, "because this is the first offence," _And because my father is so high-ranking_, "we have decided to show mercy." So, this was just a show of humiliation. Psyche took in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "In the place of death, lashes will be the teacher."_

_Any calm that had entered her mind at the beginning of Bellum's speech was instantly replaced with the cold wash of realism. She was about to be lashed. Around her, the people began muttering, some agreeing with the punishment, others thinking that it wasn't appropriate. Bellum held out a hand for silence and, very slowly, the crowd obliged. _

"_Psyche Hunter," Bellum called, turning to face her with a cold glare, "with your own mouth you have admitted to leaving the District on multiple occasions. Because of this, you have led another young one with you who was injured. This boy was injured because of you. Your punishment shall be 15 lashes for you and 15 for the boy."_

_Psyche just stared at him as she was led towards the post in the center, towards the lashing post. She continuing her blank stare as her wrists were bound together, and she was left leaning forward against the post. Because she had gone searching for Felix as soon as she returned from training, she was wearing her normal uniform-a light, black shirt that allowed her to move as she pleased with ease. Her shirt, she knew, would hold up no resistance to a whip. _

_Behind her, she could hear the slow, easy steps of the Peacekeeper who would be her punisher. She breathed in deeply, trying to prepare herself for the blow she could practically feel coming. She heard the whistle as the whip flew through the air and-_

Psyche shot up, gasping for breath. Around her, the night creatures were alive and moving, on the hunt for food and shelter.

From her perch on a branch, Psyche stares down at the world beneath her, trying to catch her breath. Her back stings, as though the healed flesh can still feel the sting of the whip against it. Glancing around her, as though making sure no one can see her weakness, she takes in another deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut, leaning her back against the trunk of her tree.

The freezing night air had forced her to sleep with her full 13 uniform while also wrapped in a sleeping bag, courtesy, yet again, of 13. Her waist, beneath the bag, is tied with rope, anchoring her to the tree so that she wouldn't fall.

She can't help but think of the snatches of clips she saw of the 74th Hunger Games. She hates to say it, but Everdeen winning was not a fluke.

If Cato and Clove had spent more time learning some of the lesser points of survival and not just fighting, then the two would have actually had a good chance at winning. But, no.

"Get over yourself," she mutters under her breath, her voice causing little puffs of smoke to rise in front of her. With a very visible sigh, she covers her mouth with the clothe she was given earlier and leans back. "You would have died just as easily as them."

Her mind wanders back to that day, almost four years ago. She had been 11. And, when she had returned home, her father had punished her further-'no food or water. Three days.'

Cassio, her favorite brother, had snuck her some bread and a small glass of water, citing that, 'he had been visiting her and had left his supplies in her room by accident.'

She misses her brother. Misses him so much that sometimes, at the most random of times, she finds herself thinking about him, causing her heart to twist in her chest.

Cassio was the type of brother to smile sympathetically and helped her when she was injured.

Octavius, her eldest brother, on the other hand would be the type of brother to 'accidently' slam his elbow into her back and very pointedly shove as much food into his mouth as possible while she sat and watched.

To this day, it's clear which brother was always more like their father.

"I wonder what America's going to be like," she muses aloud. Coin had said that he'd either look like a swimmer from 4 or a warrior from 2; did that mean he'd carry their attitude?

Psyche wrinkles her nose at the thought, having dealt too much with self-entitled idiots.

She wonders what 'Canada' will be like. After a lot of brainstorming with Coin, the two had come up with a sensible route, though Coin was sure to add the two maps to her supply list: the old one of 'America' and the normal one of Panem.

"Just in case," Coin had said.

In case of what? Psyche has no idea.

"Do people in this 'Canada' even like us?" Psyche had asked out of pure exhaustion one night when she had gotten very little sleep and Coin was practically shoving tons of information down her throat. "How do we know we're not walking into a trap or something?"

"Canada and America," Coin began, not even looking up from whatever piece of information that had caught her attention, "are brothers. Very close, if history is anything to go by."

"And geography," Psyche muttered, trying not to laugh. Coin had raised her head and had stared at her for a full minute before casually strolling up behind her and cuffing her head.

Psyche grins at the memory, rubbing the place where Coin had smacked her.

Somewhere in front of her, an owl 'hoots', startling the smaller animals.

Psyche decides to go over the plan, just so she can think about something important before falling asleep and just to make sure she knows what she's doing: she's been walking for almost a five days so she knows she'll make it to D.C within the next day. Maybe two, if the weather is bad. Thankfully, though, she hasn't hit any bad weather so she's confident that she's fine, for the time being.

Very slowly, her eyes close to the sound of hooting and the rush of water and the scuffle of animals beneath her.

**And there it is! Hope ya'll have a great Friday! **


	4. The Shadow

**Here is Chapter 4! Enjoy :D**

"What is it with the Ancients and making things so damned hard?" Psyche snarls almost two day later as she finds herself scrambling over more ancient, destroyed architecture.

When she had stumbled into D.C. almost an entire day ago, she hadn't known what to think. Coin had made the 'state' sound like some vast, 'city upon a hill' type thing that had the grace of 'God' flowing down upon it.

Maybe there were two D.C.'s. The only thing Psyche can see of this one is destroyed buildings and a former city that had lost its battle to Mother Nature: buildings that once stood erect and proud now stood in shambles, covered in vines and leaves. And, what she _can_ see is so sun bleached and eroded after years of misuse that Psyche thinks, when everything is said and done, that this place could never be reused without completely tearing down the former skeleton.

With another low oath Psyche takes a sharp turn down (what she hopes) is in the right direction. On the ground near her she can see scorch marks. Coin had told her that the state had been evacuated after a fire had practically destroyed it. Thousands had died.

On entrance into this derelict city, she had thought that she might stumble across an ancient skeleton or something. But, according to Coin, this imagining was stupid because anyone that died in the city would no doubt have been cremated by the fires that had erupted. And, after 75 years, their ashes would have no doubt been spread in the wind.

"There's nothing lef-"

Before she even finishes that thought the distant, familiar hum of a Carrier interrupts her. She casts her eyes skyward and crouches low to the ground and lowers her black hood over her head, easily blending in with her surroundings. She lifts her eyes-her head still covered-and watches in amazement as a Capitol Heliocarrier, with the Capitol insignia and everything, drones across the sky, black against the grey expanse.

"What are they…" She mutters aloud, trailing off in astonishment. Coin had told her that no one had been here since the fire destroyed the city. No one could _survive_ here.

15 years of warrior training tells her to try looking at this development like a commander before a battle.

_They have the personification of a country in their grasps_, she thinks, _so it only makes sense that they'd put everything they have into keeping him within their grasps_.

The thought makes something shift uncomfortably within Psyche. Chances are, whoever they have protecting America is a Peacekeeper, probably some of their best. The majority of Peacekeepers, and the best, usually come from 2. When she makes it passed everything and is standing before the door to where Coin thinks America is there will no doubt be Peacekeepers. Can she really fight people from her own District?

Could she really win in such a fight?

_Of course you can_, her mind answers immediately after the thought flits through her head. _You made it to 13 by yourself_.

She really wishes she could stop thinking like that because this was completely different. Traversing through the countryside to get to a ghost District is completely different than trying to break a very important figure out of a high security prison.

Above her, almost as though someone's trying to drive the point home, the Heliocarrier's drone gets louder and louder until it's finally above her. She crouches lower, staying as far out of sight as possible, and watches as the Carrier continues on, its monstrous droning loud enough to wake the dead.

Considering where she is, Psyche can't tell if that would be a good thing or a bad thing.

Shifting her supplies higher on her shoulder, she straightens up and continues walking as the Carrier gets farther and farther out of sight, her mind abuzz with curiosity.

Was the Carrier dropping supplies off for whatever guards there were? Could she-

_Can I still see the Carrier? _

Realization nearly drives her to her knees. Psyche lifts herself to her toes, trying to see if she can catch sight of the Carrier. If they're here, then that means they're no doubt going to the Capitol. Where else would supplies be needed than for soldiers stationed in front of a building holding a high profiled individual?

With a jolt, Psyche makes sure her supplies are well secured before she shifts from walking to jogging; focusing on her breathing and making sure everything is even. She makes sure that the Carrier is within sight and, if she can't see it, then within hearing range.

More than once, she makes the mistake of turning down a wrong street or making a turn when she should continue on straight. The ground is uneven and often times, she has to leap over large slabs of marble or brick or dive under nearly collapsing over-hangings. She doesn't know how long she runs, only stopping when she sees a clearing in front of her and the only reason she stops is so that she can duck behind another dilapidated building-or house, or shack, or whatever the hell the thing was in a former life-to avoid being seen.

The clearing that caught her attention consists of a large, stained shell of a building nearly covered in vines with parts of the wall scorched and burned. Some of the windows are long broken and the gate surrounding the structure are rusted and covered in briar thorns.

Oh, yeah. Getting through those was going to be a blast.

There are a few yards worth of empty space between the front of the building and the fence, just enough space for a particularly small Carrier to land.

Sure enough, within the space sits the small Carrier from earlier: the sleek black material garners her appreciation. She can tell that this Carrier, as opposed to the Capitol Carrier that carries the Tributes to the Hunger Games, is built entirely to carry supplies and nothing else. The multiple propellers that are still spinning tell her that the Carrier is only dropping supplies off and the guards' ease at carrying everything inside tell her that this drop off is an annual thing.

How many guards…

She sees them. Where the people dropping off the supplies are fitted in tan outfits with the Capitol insignia on the backs, the guards, Peacekeepers are visible with their white outfits standing out against the bleak sky and building. There are two at the entrance, their guns held at their sides, relaxed.

She scouts the perimeter, catching shadows pacing within some of darkened rooms. Once, she accidently stumbles over something in her path and she stills, hoping that no one heard the sound of a body hitting the ground. Fortunately, with nature taking back what was once hers, the ground if covered with a couple of centimeters worth of grass and roots and such to muffle the sound.

Coin had warned her about the 'grand scope of things' and to be ready. She also said that the rumours she'd heard said that the room she was looking for, the 'Oval office' or something, was situated in what was called the 'west wing' on the first floor.

That was the easy part. The hard part, she was told again and again, was getting out and in, without being shot.

Swearing under her breath (it seems like she does that more and more, and not even for anything warranting an oath), she continues circling the building, staying out of sight but close enough that she can see the building that she's supposed to break into.

Coin had told her a brief history about the building: once called 'The White House', this building housed the former presidents. It was placed there as the common ground when the country had been young and no one had known where to place the leaders. In 1812 the building had been burned to the ground and was later rebuilt. It was officially called the 'White House' in 1902 because of the gray-white color. Before that it was called the Executive Mansion.

"They called a white house, 'The White House'," Psyche had stated flatly after being told this one night with Coin. "They couldn't think of anything better?"

"They weren't very created," Coin had answered, bent over a map.

Psyche snorted, "clearly."

Looking back, Psyche now feels pity for the former beauty. The structure was nearly unrecognizable with its former grandeur.

Glancing at the tops of the buildings around her, an idea begins to slowly form in her mind. An idea, she knows, that calls for darkness. She lifts her eyes to the dreary sky, her breath misting above her, and she leans back against her hiding spot, shifts her bag into her lap, and reaches for the cover. She grabs a piece of bread, preparing herself for a long wait.

….

"So… your boss, he said no?" Ludwig asks over the phone, sounding genuinely upset. Arthur sighs from his desk, leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and stares out of the window in his office, the dreary weather outside seeming to mirror his mood. He pushes his reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

"He has the same reservations as me," Arthur continues, "about sending a spy into neutral territories on nothing more than a rumour."

"Did you tell him-"

"Yes, I used your argument and you reasoning, adding some of my own ideas. But The Royal Family refuses go ahead without having just cause and, oddly enough, they do not see rumours as just cause."

Arthur can hear Ludwig take in a deep breathe through his nose and breath out heavily in the next second.

"How are things on your side?" Arthur asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Any good news?"

"President Rainor Pfeiffer said he'd be villing to if the rumours persist. Othervise, ve'll keep an eye out on them."

"What'll you be watching for?"

"Anything that vould appear suspicious. Anything that vould call the attention or seems out of place," Ludwig heaves another heavy sighs, "it's been over seventy years and we have never found anything out of place. Vhy vould now be any different?"

"A-are you giving up?" Arthur asks, surprised at the usually stubborn German's words.

Ludwig huffs, his voice sounding as if Arthur had just insulted his honour. "Of course not! Elections are coming up, though, and President Pfeiffer vants everything to be in order for his 'replacement'."

"Does he really call them that?"

"Of course."

Arthur chuckles , "What are your views on the next election?"

"Is that a fair question?"

"We are allowed our own opinions," Arthur reminds the German country as Arthur turns from looking out the window to stare down at the papers spread out across his desk. "Surely you have a favorite? Personally, I like that younger bloke, Aurik Färber. There's just something about the lad."

"There is," Ludwig agrees, "He's young, too, compared to his predecessors. Only 42. But he is good. He has great ideas."

"I know," Arthur chuckles as he begins reading over some of the papers on his desk. "I've been watching. The other candidate, Alban Meier, he seems well enough but many of his ideas seem weak, insubstantial."

"_Ja_," Ludwig replies, "And you? How is your Royal Family?"

"They are well," Arthur tells him, "Prince Arthur and his wife are expecting."

"Congratulations! This is their second child, _ja_?"

"It is," Arthur answers with a grin, "The Queen is beside herself and won't stop asking me to do all of these miscellaneous jobs. If it weren't for young George tagging along then I would be far more irritated."

"Is George excited at being an older brother?"

"He'd rather have a puppy."

"I'm positive Gilbert vould have preferred a puppy, as vell," jokes Ludwig and earning a laugh from Arthur. "How is Francis? He has elections coming up as vell, doesn't he?"

"He does," Arthur confirms, scribbling his name on numerous documents to be given to the Queen. "There aren't many candidates but, according to France, the most popular one is another young bloke named Armel Dubois."

"He is only… 37?"

"38," Arthur corrects before continuing, "one of the youngest candidates to run for President in years. The frog won't stop bragging about it. If I have to hear him say it one more time at a meeting…"

"It seems interesting, doesn't it?" Ludwig asks quietly after a companionable. "How everything seems to be shaping up?"

"How do you mean?"

"Your Prince Arthur vill take the throne vithin the next year; my elections vill be over soon and, from the polls, the vinner is quite obvious; France has his own election coming soon; from vhat I've heard, a new pope is soon to be elected, vone that is astonishingly like a predecessor, Pope Francis-"

"It's like there's a new age approaching," Arthur mutters as he studies a truly difficultly worded page.

"Ja," Ludwig replies quietly. "I vonder vhat this age vill bring."

Arthur makes a humming noise, wordlessly agreeing with Ludwig.

"Have you heard anything about President Snow?" Ludwig asks suddenly. It takes a second for the question to register before Arthur answers,

"The American President? No. Not much, save for what appears every now and then on the telly. Why? Anything new?"

"Does he seem… alright to you?"

Arthur stops writing for a second all the while wondering if there was something that he didn't know. "He seems… alright, I suppose. I don't entirely trust him but, then again, I barely remember there being an American president that I absolutely trusted."

"Roosevelt?"

"He reminded me too much of Churchill," Arthur answers dryly as he reaches for a stapler at the edge of his desk. ''Though I respected both men immensely, I don't think that those blokes could stay in a room long, while having a real conversation, without wanting to murder one another. They were too much alike. Plus, we needed for Roosevelt to like us."

"Ahh," Ludwig mutters quietly and Arthur can hear the hesitation, the nervousness in the German's voice. He makes an irritated noise with his tongue.

"I've gotten over it, Ludwig. I understand that that wasn't you, but you following your countrymen's views."

"Do you think Alfred would…" Ludwig asks suddenly, as though the thought has just occurred to him. "Do you think he vould…"

"I don't think he would," Arthur assures him as he removes his glasses and starts fiddling with them. "I've known Alfred a long time and from what I remember of the lad is that he doesn't stand for anyone hurting his people, even his own people. I mean, the Civil War practically split him up. Christ," Arthur swears, rubbing his eyes. "I remember seeing him during the Great War and he still looked tired from years prior. He wouldn't let anyone hurt his people, no matter what it costs him."

….

Darkness slowly descends as Psyche begins putting her plan together. How do the Capitol visitors dress when they walk through the streets of District 2? They dress as soldiers and artisans. How should she dress when walking into a heavily secured Capitol stronghold to kidnap their prisoner?

Why, dress up as a Peacekeeper of course!

She crouches down at the very edge of the perimeter of the building, staying out of view until the very right moment. She practically buries her face in the dirt when the Carrier takes off to make sure that she's completely invisible.

And take off it does: the Carrier slowly rises from the earth, shaking the very ground as it does so. The propellers nearly blow the surrounding plant life to the ground and Psyche has to double over to keep from falling on her back. On her knees, Psyche keeps her head down until the Carrier vanishes from view and remains there until the droning of the Carrier fades into background noise.

Around her, the world is getting darker and darker and she watches the sun set, erupting in bright colors of red and orange and pink. When darkness finally falls, the world is silent save for the droning of insects in the distance. Slowly, a light from atop the building begins to glow, as though it's a beacon to any other guards that will come. A searchlight, maybe? Perhaps a way to keep an eye on the surrounding woods to keep anything unwanted out? she doesn't know what it is, but she does try her very best to keep out of the glow of the bright light.

From what's she learned so far, the Peacekeepers in the building have a set schedule. The two at the gate have transitioned somewhere inside and two other Peacekeepers had taken their place. She doesn't know how long these new guards will stay where they are, but she does know that she only needs one shot. From there, well, she can probably bullshit her way through.

It wouldn't be the first time, that's for sure.

She stays close to the edges of the thicket of trees, keeping low to the ground so as not to draw attention form the guards. She only needs one guard to see her. One guard to chase her and then things will start falling into place.

She knows the route she's taking, knows which turn will lead her where and which buildings have a safe enough, or close enough distance between them for her to jump. She knows how to land, knows how to fall, and knows that Peacekeeper number two isn't from District 2, so she's hoping that it'll be him that makes chase.

She can tell by the Peacekeeper's stance that he isn't from her District. Or maybe he is, or was, and was from the masonry section of the District because there's no way that any Peacekeeper that she knows would stand like that: every muscle tense, nothing relaxed, taut like an arrow. Even from the distance, Psyche has no trouble in seeing the tightness in his grip, the way he's holding his weapon. He can be one of three things: a mason; Peacekeeper from any other District; or new blood. Very, very new blood.

That fact alone calms her nerves because she knows that she'll have no problem against a newbie fighter. She may be young, but her father and brothers… _taught_ her everything there was to fighting. Failure wasn't an option. Failure was never an option. Failure meant punishment. Punishment in a soldier District was harsh.

If she did something to garner their attention, the older, more experienced solider would no doubt tell the grunt to check out any and all disturbances, leaving the bigger man guarding the door. She just needed something to get their attention…

An idea come to mind and she glances at the spotlight and slinks lower into the woods. She reaches behind her with her right hand, wraps her fingers around the hilt of her dagger, and pulls it forward, all while staying out of sight of the two guards. Shifting her position a tiny bit, she waits until the spotlight lingers on a spot of woods a few centimeters to her side and reaches out, putting the reflective edge of the dagger right into the spot of light.

She knows what the guards will see: they'll see an odd, twinkling light that seems to have no origin and, of course, the runt will have to be the one to check out the disturbance because, it's the 'perfect opportunity to show the kid how to navigate through the thicket.'

That's shit and she knows it. She knows that once upon a time when the other guard was a newbie, he was sent on the same pointless errand. It's like a rite of passage to send the newbie after a pointless prize, then the newbie, when his time came, would go off and tell whatever poor sap they were stuck with the same thing. It was a senseless circle that would never stop.

Sure enough, she watches from her spot in the forest as the Main guard-the District 2 buff-listens closely to something in his ear before barking something at the newbie. The newbie bobs his head at whatever the big one said and leaves the perch, marching resolutely towards the direction of the mysterious blinking light. Psyche ducks behind a tree branch and waits for the Peacekeeper to amble his way towards where she's hiding.

Minutes later the kid is standing almost a meter away from Psyche's hiding spot, swearing under his breath and cursing his very existence as he shines a light on his helmet from one side of the forest floor to the next. It's funny to watch and even funnier to see this large figure dressed in white with a black mask, stumbling over roots and shrubs and bushes. Belted at his waist is his weapon-

_You little fool; you should always have that weapon in your hand otherwise its useless_-

-and his heavy shoes easily crush anything beneath them. She knows she can take him: even with the uniform on, she can see that the boy's tall and slim, not at all built with the physique of a fighter. He can hardly pass for a swimmer with the way he's built. He stumbles too much like a puppy whose paws are too big for them and his helmet keeps sliding as he bends his head one way and the next.

_This is pathetic_, she thinks disgustedly, _this is the best they can do?_ It looks as though they had just picked some poor kid and thrown him into the Peacekeeper training corps and then just threw him the most likely looking uniform out there. It's sad, really.

Still crouched in her spot, Psyche slowly returns her dagger to her sheath, reaches for a nearby twig, holds it between both of her hands and breaks it, the twig snapping with an audible '_crack_'.

The boy spins on his heels towards the sound of the snapping twig, his hands _finally_ reaching for his weapon. His hand lingers on the metal object but he doesn't remove it from its holster. She knows that, if surprise remains on her side, she can reach the confused by before he even pulls the weapon out of its holster.

"Who's there?" the boy asks and Psyche rolls her eyes. _Finally_ things make sense: he wasn't even from the Districts. He was a little Capitol boy whose mommy and daddy probably thought that this was a great way to train the kid. "I-I know you're out there! At least," he mutters, his accent dripping into his words, though muffled by the helmet, "at least I know _something_ is out there. Egad, Paris now you're just hearing things." He glances around the area warily, his eyes never once landing on her hiding spot, and slowly begins walking away. Away from where Psyche is and away from the building with the guards.

Psyche follows him deeper into the woods, keeping to the shadows and not making a sound. Save for that one time or two when she wanted to keep the boy on his toes. His reactions are just _the best_.

Finally, the boy and the shadow make it to the far edge of the briar, overlooking the long dead city. The boy casts the city an uninterested glance before turning around, no doubt about to walk back to the building.

Psyche the Shadow steps out of her hiding spot right in the boy's path. She grins at him and waves a single finger in his direction.

The boy's reaction is quick but obvious: he reaches for his weapon (Psyche wonders if he can even _use_ it) but she reaches for it before he does. In her hand is the weapon and the boy stares at her with his helmet, though she can practically feel his glare burning a hole through her skin.

"What?" Psyche asks haughtily, falling back into an old routine that she kind of misses and trying not to squint her eyes too much at the bright light now directed at her. "Do you want this?" She holds out the weapon, her finger resting between the trigger and the trigger guard. When the boy doesn't make a grab for it, she rolls her eyes and begins twirling the weapon around with her finger.

"That's my weapon," the boy growls, his accent slipping through yet again.

"Yes, I am aware of that," Psyche drawls patronizingly, snapping the weapon against the palm of her hand, "come on, little soldier boy, your accent says it all. Do you even know how to use this weapon?"

"I was trained by the best," the boy announces arrogantly his scrawny chest puffing out and his gloved fingers curled tightly into fists.

"Mmhmm," Psyche hums, "let me guess, Proximo Ludis, right?" She doesn't have to see his face to know that she's just surprised him. "Come _on_, boy, he's trained so many people in my District that it's not even funny."

"So you're from District 2?" the boy asks, his posture relaxing. Psyche studies his figure, catching at least a dozen vulnerable positions that the kid has just put himself into. "Are you a new Peacekeeper?"

"Not exactly," she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest and holding the weapon in plain view of him. "I mean, I haven't been for a while."

"But you're District 2," the boy argues, as though that's a big deal. As though her announcement was the greatest betrayal imaginable. "The Capitol and District 2 are-are-"

"What?" Psyche interrupts irritably, "'allies'? Is that what you were going to say? Us being 'allies' doesn't stop the Capitol from taking out children and throwing them into that arena. Us being 'allies' doesn't stop the murder of countless masons when they fall behind when it comes time to collect their pieces. We're not allies; we're those dogs that are called to pick up your mess and take the fall when things backfire. Or, in simpler words for you to understand, the ruling class sees us as the underbelly of their kingdom-the spiders to clean up all the dirty things you want gone." She steps closer, her hands dropping to her side, and her weapon held in her grip. Her _relaxed_ grip. "We are not allies, _boy_, and you'll do well to remember that."

"My name is Paris," the boy growls, his hands clenched even tighter at his side. She can see the muscle in the hand against the tight fabric of the glove tighten. "Paris, alright? Not _boy._ Not _kid_. Paris."

"Alright, Paris," she drawls, holding out the weapon. "d'you want this back?" the boy's mask remains trained on the weapon in her hand. "I'll make you a deal, okay? You and me, we're going to play a game of tag. Easy enough, right? You try and catch me and, if you do, I'll give you this weapon and a perfect shot at-" she pats her chest, the area right above her heart-"you'll get a clear shot."

"And if you win?" He asks, not sounding like he believed her. Finally he's learning something.

Psyche leans forward, her body's weight easily balanced on the balls of her feet. She can kind of see her reflection in the kid's mask. She sees a girl with wild and curly hair that had fallen out of a braid, a black uniform that's at odds with the boy's white one, thin scratches covering her face, and a wicked yet impish look in her eyes. She once heard the District herb doctor tell a story about the wicked fey people who wander the Wilds, looking for anyone foolish enough to enter. Paris' flashlight gives her reflection an almost ethereal glow and, for a second, she can see what the old hag had been going on about.

"Oh, believe me," she drawls out, reaching out and tapping the boy's mask with her finger. "You really don't want to find out."

**What do you think about this? I really like the conversation between Ludwig and Arthur because I think they'd be friends. Maybe its their temperaments? Maybe its because both of them hang out with well-meaning, yet obnoxious friends. And I think Gilbert would have preferred a puppy. I thick when most older siblings see their younger sibling for the first time, they'd rather have a puppy.**


	5. Peacekeepers

**Hey all! So, happy Monday! I decided to go ahead and put this chapter up :)**

**A word of warning: from here, it kind of gets dark. Language wise and content. So, be warned right here at the start. Please enjoy the story and tell me what you think! **

She knew he would somehow call for some type of help.

The deeper into the skeletal city the two venture, the quieter Paris becomes. Psyche remembers the one time in training a former Peacekeeper had brought in their uniform and allowed the kids to try it on. On that day, he'd inspired many young boys and girls to become the 'law and justice of Panem!'

The old uniform had a built-in alarm that could be pressed by the wearer if anything happened. This, along with a tracker installed within the suit, would allow other Peacekeepers within range to help if ever there was a problem that a single Peacekeeper couldn't handle. The longest reaction time, the man had said, was around 10-15 minutes. However, as Peacekeepers often times spend their days amongst busy crowds, there was always the chance that someone would run into the Peacekeeper by accident and press the alarm. More than once this happened and the reaction time got slower and slower as many of the other guards began seeing this. The more it happened, the more the Peacekeepers brushed it off as a joke.

However, within the last five years, the Capitol had invested money into making suits with a quicker response time, something that couldn't be seen by anyone not wearing the uniform, but could be easily accessed by the wearer. They had come up with a helmet that had an ear piece which would allow the Peacekeeper to speak with a brother-in-arms without drawing attention to the fact that they were asking for help. There was a tracking device inside the suit for anyone to find their brother and help them out in all ways possible. With this, the reaction time had been cut in half and the Peacekeepers were given more power.

So, she wasn't all that surprised when she saw two other guards slowly approach them in the bone city. She could see by the way that they were walking that they were more to her caliber, more like the trainers and fighters back home.

"This isn't fair," Psyche drawled as soon as the other two Peacekeepers were within her sight. "Three against one? Come on, you people are treating me like I'm a threat."

"You stole one of our brother's weapons," Guard number one barks as the other one stays back. Psyche rolls her eyes and holds up her hands, showing them that she is unarmed. The weapon is hidden amongst her large black coat. But, it was out of her hands.

"Do you see any weapons?"

"No," Guard number one snarls, holding up his weapon. The blood in her veins begins to flow easily now, and her stomach fills with the familiar edge of nervousness tinged with excitement. She knows how, psychologically, her body's reacting-with the flow of endorphins and her mind easily identifying everything around her, even some of the most insignificant details: she can see some dirt on Guard number one's shoes, she can see a faint crack in the helmet of Guard number two's visor, and she can see Paris shaking slightly. "I see a dead body."

Psyche jumps back as a bullet explodes from his weapon, and leaps atop a burned pillar that's been beaten down by erosion. She smiles and then turns and runs as fast as she can, knowing and hearing the three idiots are running after her. Will they call for help? Psh. No. It's one person against three of them. They'll be expected to destroy the threat on sight and they won't admit to being beaten by one person. She also knows that for their communicators to work, they have to be within a certain range, near the origin to remain charging, or within a larger group of Peacekeepers. Chances are, the only way for them to charge their uniform is all the way back at the building, far out of their way.

A single guard who wanders too far from the group? Nope. His communicator is fried. A group who wander deep into the wilds? They'll be fine as long as they stick together.

She hears the bullets behind her and can practically feel when they brush within centimeters of her face. She dodges, runs in zig-zag lines, and jumps from the top of one structure to the next, trying-not to get away from them-by trying to separate the smallest threat from the biggest.

She doesn't have the slightest idea of how long she's been running before she finds herself at the edge of a particularly tall building with a much lower neighbor than the other buildings. She glances over her shoulder to make sure that she's still being followed (and if there's manic smile on her face, she doesn't know it), and then she jumps.

She knows how to fall, she knows how to land, and she knows how to make her body absorb the shock of the landing and then roll right back onto her feet. She does just this before bringing her black hood over her face and crouching low into the shadows of one of the corners of the roof. She reaches into her bag, pulls out one of the spheres that she hopes works, presses the button (just like she was told to do), and rolls the ball right into the center of the building, just as the three Peacekeepers land on their feet-Paris landing as ungracefully as a new-born fawn-the sphere lights up and, before her very eyes, a life-sized scarily familiar projection of her is standing right there, her dark suit almost invisible in the night and her bright red hair glowing against the moonlight. Projection! her shoots the three Peacekeepers a jaunty smile and salute and then bounds off over the edge onto another building, no doubt gone to wreak havoc wherever she may end up.

The three guards watch Projection! her run, guard number one saying fast enough that Psyche has to lean forward to catch it, "I know where this leads; Paris, you fall back and circle around, cut her off at that decrepit museum. Julius and I will follow her from here to that corner where that large oak is breaking up through the concrete. From there we'll split up and then follow back around, trapping her in that alleyway where we practiced our shooting. If you get a shot at her, take it. In her back, in her neck, anywhere; if you get a shot, any hesitation on your part will be considered treason and you'll be shot with her. Now _go_."

With that, the three split up, the two older guards leaping off the building after her while Paris falls back towards the edge of the building. She knows the range limits. She knows that, now, with all the light that he's been burning, all that energy, that his communicator isn't working. When the two experienced guards are out of sight, Psyche straightens up and removes her hood, appearing out of the darkness like the wraith that she no doubt resembles.

Paris' foot is on the edge of the building when Psyche begins to clap. Slowly, sarcastically, and with a faint hint of mocking in her voice she calls out, "well, done! I must say, I'm impressed that you've kept up with me for so long!"

The boy doesn't say anything for a long time and Psyche, knowing exactly what he's attempting to do, rolls her eyes. "It's not going to work, you know. The communicator? I know all about those. I know that you've been separated from the main source for too long, used up to much energy to keep that nice little light bulb on your helmet on, and that you're now separated from your group." Slowly, so there's no way that he can misunderstand her, she steps forward and says clearly, "you're out of luck, _boy_."

Paris turns and lunges, reaching for the baton that's used as a last chance weapon for Peacekeepers who are out of every other weapon imaginable. He launches at her and she easily dodges, landing on the balls of her feet and dancing around the edges of his attacks. He keeps lunging, keeps trying to slam the baton against her skull. But, his reaction time is too slow, too late, and he leaves himself too vulnerable.

Finally, she gives him a break: she stands still, right in front of him, right in his line of vision. She stays there with a raised eyebrow and cocky smile, waiting for him to take the bait.

He does. He lunges at her, his baton raised high in the air, and tries to bust her head in. she easily dodges, grabs the wrist with the baton clenched in his hand, and pulls the limb behind him in what she knows is an extremely painful position, he drops his weapon, she keeps the limb as straight as it can go, and then slams the elbow of her other arm into his olecranon-the hard, bony part of the elbow.

He cries out in pain and Psyche, still holding his wrist, hooks her foot onto the boy's ankle and pulls his feet right out from under him, watching as he falls to the ground. He falls on his back, one hand clutching his now broken olecranon. Psyche doesn't give him a moment to recover-she struts towards him, her hand reaching for one of the daggers at her back, and slams her foot on the boy's chest, stopping him from moving even one centimeter. His arms fall to his side, and she leans forward, her foot still pressed firmly against his chest.

With a dagger in one hand, she uses the other one to unbuckle the straps of the boy's helmet and removes the piece from the suit. The face staring up at her is that of a literal boy who couldn't be that much older than her-16, maybe 17. His slanted eyes stare up at her, watery and filled with both pain and hate. His eyes are a Capitol enhanced blue-an exotic blue, almost as though they'd been trying to create a new color: an interesting mix of the teal blue that's so often found in the Capitol and the darker, more muted blue of a large body of water. They're also seems to be a mixture of brown in them as well.

"What color were your eyes before?" she finds herself asking against her will. The boy's eyes convey confusion for a second before returning to their original hate-filled stare.

"Brown," he snaps, struggling slightly and then flinching when he moves his arm. Psyche wonders if she should feel bad about that. Unfortunately, she can't seem to muster the appropriate emotion for that. She studies the boy's tan face, covered in sweat and his dark, curly hair pressed down from the helmet. He has a pretty face, she notes, and in another world, there would definitely be some attraction there.

Unfortunately, in the world she lives in now, there's no room for that.

"My parents will pay you," the boy-_Paris_, her mind corrects; _he's in his last few minutes of life, the least you can do is show him some respect_- "My parents are from the Capitol. They're very rich," he adds as almost an afterthought. She's about to scoff, to scorn him when something shiny flashes against the flashlight of the helmet she's holding.

Frowning, and with her foot still pressed against the boy's-_Paris' _chest, she crouches down and reaches for his wrist, curious as to what he's wearing.

Peacekeepers weren't allowed any type of jewelry or anything that could be stolen or seen. They're supposed to be seen as gods of order and punishment. Gods did not have silly trinkets on their wrists. It went against their uniform code.

She pulls up the white sleeve of his uniform and studies the bracelet on his wrist. The closer she looks the more familiar it seems…

The light catches a charm. A pretty golden charm, perfectly symmetrical, with a light silver line curling up in a beautiful, graceful dance, with a small, light blue gem in the center on both sides. The charm is too feminine for a boy to where. At least, that was what her brother, Cassius, had been told-_berated_-by their father when he had made it in honour of Psyche on her 13th birthday.

She knows that charm. Knows it as though it had been branded in her mind's eye. In a way, it has: her favorite brother had been clutching this in the last moments of his life as he was gasping for breath in the arena.

The charm was a butterfly. A beautiful, peaceful, perfectly symmetrical little gold butterfly, created by a mason who had wanted to show Cassius the art of masonry a few days before he had been reaped.

"_Always stay in flight,"_ her brother would whisper encouragingly in her ear after a particularly brutal training session or punishment. _"Always stay airborne, Psyche."_

"Where did you get this?" Psyche asks, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. When the boy doesn't answer, she holds his wrist up to him, where dangles the chain. "_This_," she tells him sharply, "this bracelet, right here: where. Did. You. Get. It?"

Paris'-_the boy's_ eyes glow with what could be fear and what could be arrogance, "I won it in a bet after some Games a few years back. The guy I win it off if said it belonged to a Tribute-"

She doesn't know when she moves, but the next thing she knows, she's leaning over him, her body's entire weight pressed against his chest with her dagger at his throat. Tears burn her eyes but she refuses to let this-this _Capitol elite_ see her cry.

"Panem today," she growls, the dagger digging deeper into his throat, creating a small cut near his Adam's apple. "Panem tomorrow," she presses her knees into his chest, watching as the anger vanishes and is replaced by fear as he gasps at her combined weight pressing down on his chest. She remembers that look; her brother wore it the day he was sent away to die for people like Paris' entertainments, "Panem nevermore. You won't be alive to see your government rot from the inside out."

….

When Psyche circles around later, she sees the two Peacekeepers exactly where she expected to see them: they were both rubbing their heads, trying to figure out how some kid who had never been to this part of Panem had managed to outsmart them. Guard number one glances over his shoulder at her,

"Hey, Paris, did you see where she went off to?"

Psyche, dressed in Paris' uniform, shakes her head, shaping her lips into the same shape that Paris had and imitating his accent almost perfectly. 'Paris' nods,

"I saw her double back towards that building where we split up."

"She was right here, though," guard number one growls in frustration, turning to and fro as though expecting her to jump out of thin air.

In Paris' suit, Psyche stands tall, her own black outfit making the suit hotter and hotter. Psyche shrugs, "maybe she wasn't alone?"

"No, no," the guard growls as he begins to pace back and forth. Psyche and guard number two watch him pace, neither saying anything. Finally, he stops pacing and looks at Psyche, "you said you saw her. Where did you see her?"

Psyche shifts to attention, just as she was taught her entire life. _You're dealing with a Capitol brat_, her mind hisses, _he wasn't taught like you were_. So she relaxes her body and turns to point where she had come from.

"I saw her and shot her on the roof of that building back there," Psyche repeats, keeping her voice level. "I don't know how she managed it, but she doubled back and I saw her stumbling around on the roof. I took the shot and her body's still there."

"Show me," the guard orders as he turns to face her fully. Guard number two remains silent but, as she turns to lead them back to where she had come from, she can feel both guards trailing behind her.

When the trio makes it back to the roof top, Psyche leads them to where she knows the body is. Sure enough, lying on the ground is the body of a girl dressed in dark clothes with bright red hair and blood surrounding the unmoving body. Guard number one crouches down to get a good look at it while Guard number two remains standing, studying the body from afar.

"She's dead alright," guard one sighs as he carelessly tosses her wrist aside after feeling her pulse. Psyche lets out a breath that he didn't lift the limb off of the ground-that would have no doubt interrupted the projection, ruining her entire plan. He then reaches for her bag and begins rifling through it, taking out and eating the last of the bread and throwing the sleeper and rope to the side. He empties the bag of all her possession and then carelessly tosses the bag to the side. He then turns to the other guard, "Don't worry about moving her. When the supply Carrier comes back then we'll load her on that and have the body dropped into a lake or something."

With that, he orders Psyche and the other guard to fall out and return to the building. Psyche follows them to the ledge of the building before swearing under her breath, in her best imitation of the boy's accent, and stops in her step. Both guards turn to look at her, confused by her actions.

"My weapon's back there," she tells them as she turns away from them and begins walking towards the body.

"We'll meet you back at the Executive building," guard one tells her. She nods and he turns and jumps, safely landing on the earthen floor, despite Psyche being unable to see the action. Guard number two, on the other hand, pauses and calls over his shoulder,

"Good call today, Paris. It was quick thinking on your part and great shot, as well," he tells her, his voice surprisingly deep. Deeper than she thought it would be. With that, he turns and leaps off the ledge, much like his fellow guard a minute earlier.

Psyche, still standing there, shakes her head and then turns back towards the body. She edges forward and then stops right above the body. She crouches down to brush her fingers across figure's stomach where she knows there was a dagger embedded deeply into the flesh. She removes her hand and drags it beneath the edges of the body, looking for the sphere that she had hidden earlier in a position that no one could see it.

Reaching the sphere, she removes it from its hiding spot and turns it off, then slides it in the pocket of the Peacekeeper uniform. Before her very eyes, the projection of the red-haired, darkly dressed girl vanishes, replaced by the thinly dressed figure of a boy with lightly tanned skin, curly dark hair, and empty dark eyes. At the very center of his stomach there's a slowly growing red target.

Crouched near to the ground, she reaches forward and brushes her fingers against his eyelids, closing the empty bits of skin. She then straightens up and turns to the discarded bag and begins rifling through it herself. Sure enough, the bastard had taken almost everything out save for the matches and the machine that she had used to clean the pond water that she had drunk (it was a smart move with adding those pockets in the bag so she could at least attempt to hide something. Her grudging respect for 13 was continuing to grow). Of course, though, the machine is broken. Swearing under her breath-she knows that there's no way she can fix that-Psyche chucks the offending machinery to the side. The only thing now remaining in the small bag is something that can easily fit in the palm of her hand.

With another sigh, she glances around her to make sure that one of the other guards hasn't doubled back or anything before removing her helmet and the top half of her uniform. The maneuver is easy enough considering she'd seen how these things were made and knew all about the buckles and zippers on it.

_And helped take it off once or twice_, she remembers with a slight smirk lighting her face.

She wraps the light bag around her shoulder, reaches behind her to make sure that both of her daggers are still secured, grabs the supplies that had been carelessly tossed aside-save for the sleeper because there was no way that she can easily conceal that on her person-and reaches for her collapsible bow and the few arrows that she had. After making sure that everything is in place, she returns her uniform to its original uniformity and begins to reach for any and all loose pieces.

Finally, she feels everything is in place and replaces her helmet whilst rubbing the visor of the helmet to remove some of the extra dirt, she turns towards the ledge, only glancing back once more to see her work. On her wrist rests the bracelet.

At the undersides of her fingernails and on her knuckles rests small droplets of dried blood.

….

She returns to the building to find the gate from earlier thrown open for her arrival. With a proud grin that no one can see, she easily enters, closing the gate behind her.

She walks across the small field and stops at the front door, not entirely sure where to go. Thankfully, the guard at the door jerks their thumb towards the door and tells her with a high female voice,

"Peacekeepers Tailor and Skinner require your assistance."

And, instead of telling Psyche what she's needed for, the Peacekeeper just opens the door and allows her to go in, pointing a finger in the direction where the Peacekeepers apparently are.

They literally just invite her in.

With a nod of thanks, Psyche enters the building and walks down the hallway that the guard directed her down. A minute later, she turns a corner and sees four Peacekeepers huddled around a door, two sitting and playing a card game and the other two standing with their helmets under their arms, chatting away.

Psyche stops in her steps and waits for them to notice her. Finally, one of the guards on the ground looks up and sees her then motions towards the two standing guards. One of the standing guards closest to her turns, sees her, and then calls her over.

"Peacekeepers Glade and Fisher," guard number one begins, "this is the new recruit we were telling you about. Paris Shepherd, the boy who killed that girl."

"How did she even get this far?" One of the Peacekeepers on the ground asks her voice a low alto compared to the other female guard's higher voice. Psyche's guards shrugs, as though not at all bothered by the idea that someone had wandered this far away from any usable District.

"Maybe she had tried running away? Maybe she had tried crossing the border?"

At that, the four guards each give an amused snort, as though the idea in itself was preposterous.

"You do have a sense of humor, Peacekeeper Skinner," the female guard playing cards purrs. Skinner, the guard that had so carelessly thrown her belongings about, winks at the other guard and, though Psyche can't see her face through her mask, she has a feeling that the guard's blushing.

Tailor, her other standing guard, shakes his head, "people are stupid," he sneers viciously, earning a nodded agreement from the other guard on the ground who throws down seven cards with a cheerful, 'I win again!'

"What are you betting?" Skinner asks curiously, casually making his way towards the female guard and 'subtly' trying to get her attention with his legs.

"The only thing we have to bet here in this hellhole," the male champion announces, his strangely accented voice indicating that he is beaming beneath his mask. "shift schedules. I'm getting sick and tired of hearing that bastard yelling. You would think that by now, he'd learn that no one who can hear him will help him and anyone that would help can't hear him."

"He seems quiet now," Skinner observes, nudging his female companion-because, with the way things are going, Psyche can tell that there's definitely some relationship there. The male guard turns his head to spit at the door behind him.

"He wouldn't stop wailing a couple of days ago," the guard huffs, "and chances are he'll start back up again real soon. He gets especially terrible during the Games. Which reminds me," here, the guard turns his masked head towards Tailor, "any news on the Quarter Quell? Who's winning?"

"Odair and that old hag of a mentor of his have teamed up with the 'Girl on Fire' and loverboy," Tailor tells them, sounding faintly disgusted. "And Mason is with Nuts and Volts. Nothing particularly interesting has happened yet."

"What about Brutus and Enobaria?" Skinner asks and Psyche can tell just by his excitement that he's betting one of those two will win. Tailor shrugs,

"Those two are staying by the Cornucopia," he tells them. "They won't leave unless given a reason."

"Smart bastards," the guard on the ground answers, saluting them with his cards pressed against his temple. Finally, he turns to his female guard and Peacekeeper Skinner. "And you two, get a room before you scar me and our little Peacekeeper-in-training," he orders, jerking his head in Psyche's direction. Skinner smirks and helps the female guard stand up. He the turns to the three guards in the room,

"Anyone care to join us?"

Tailor and the other guard-who is slowly rising to his own feet-shake their heads, but the male guard adds,

"Maybe later, alright? I've had a boring day and some action might make the monotony of all this easier to bear."

Skinner and his companion nod and the female guard removes her helmet, revealing a pretty oval-shaped face with long, straight dark hair, and cold dark eyes. She stands tall and proud, reaches for Skinner's hand and leads him away. When she passes Psyche, she slides her hand up and down her shoulder, no doubt an invitation.

"Come on, Ray, give the kid a break. He just got here," the male guard drawls, sounding more amused than anything else. Ray pouts but removes her hand, continuing to drag Skinner away.

To be perfectly honest, Psyche is glad to see those two go.

"Tailor," the guard calls, sliding back down the wall and holding up his deck of cards, "want to play?"

Peacekeeper Tailor snorts, but reaches for the stack, both ignoring Psyche for the time being. Psyche watches the game unfold and, halfway through the first round, she can already tell what the game is: Jabs, a popular betting game in District 2.

She watches as the male guard-whose name, she had learned after Tailor nearly beat him to a pulp for cheating, was Peacekeeper Fisher-continues playing the game his way: by sneaking a few choice cards up his sleeve and adding them to his deck of cards when Tailor isn't looking.

She would call him out for it, but she really wants to see Tailor lose.

Sure enough, two rounds later, Tailor has Fisher pinned to a wall by his collar again, demanding how he had gotten such good cards.

"I told you," Fisher was saying, the clear smirk in his voice evident, "I've been playing this long enough to-"

'To what' Psyche will never know because its then that Fisher is interrupted by a loud whine, like a cat or something being tortured. Psyche, surprised by the noise, reaches for the gun at her waist. The motion isn't lost on the two Peacekeepers. Fisher laughs and easily brushes Tailor's hands aside,

"A little jumpy, newbie, aren't ya?" Before Psyche can even respond, Fisher motions for her to follow him and as she makes her way towards him, he removes a key from a pocket at his waist. When she reaches him, he smirks importantly at her over his shoulder, places the key in the lock, and turns. The definitely '_click_' that follows set Psyche's nerves on edge because she knows that, behind those doors is the reason behind her mission. She's being invited to enter the room holding their much needed captive.

When she enters the room behind Fisher, the first thing she notices is that the room is dark. Very, very dark, the only light being the flashlight on both Peacekeepers Fisher and Tailor's helmets. The second thing she notices is that some of the windows within the room are either cracked or covered with years' worth of vines and roots. Breaking those windows and climbing through them will be an _absolute blast_. The third thing she notices is that the room definitely a skeleton of some former glory but any metal in the room is long rusted, the carpets are torn up, and anything that isn't mounted to something is in one way or another broken or long gone.

The fourth thing she notices is the figure chained to the wall, on his knees, on the opposite side of the large windows.

His hair, from what she can see, is a tangled, shoulder length mess of dust-colored, dust covered, bloody-stained mop. She can't even tell what its former color was. His clothes, what's left of them, are ripped and barely covering him; his body is covered in gaping cuts, bruises, and scars. Some of them look new and there are even a few that are still bleeding. His body, whether it once was a swimmer's or a fighter's, now resembles a particularly bony skeleton, and his chained wrists are so discolored and bloody that Psyche feels the urge to turn away and throw up in the corner.

When the figure looks up at them, his unnaturally blue eyes are dark with pain and hate and are so clouded that Psyche's wonders if he can even see them. His eyes are sunken in and she has little doubt that she could count every bone, every angle and plane on his face if she even wanted to get that close. Beneath the bruises and cuts, she can see that the skin is a sickly yellow.

Fisher stalks towards the figure and grabs a handful of his hair, "shut-up already! You're not helping yourself at all, bastard!"

The figure-_America_ stares hatefully up at him for a minute through curtains of blood stained bangs and he does something that Psyche never had the guts to do.

He spits right into the Peacekeeper's face, right into one of his eyes. Fisher recoils and, with a growl of rage, slams his fist into the Nation's bony stomach, causing him to attempt to curl up within himself.

The sight is so pathetic that Psyche clears her throat and turns away, not wanting to see anything-or any_one_-being treated that way.

_Cute_, her mind whispers viciously, _you pick now, of all times, to have a conscience. A little late for that, don't you think?_

Shut-up, she thinks, still looking anywhere other than the figure prisoner to some rusty chains.

On one of the walls in the room, she notices a picture. She walks away from the group before her and makes her way slowly towards the picture.

It's covered in a fine layer of dust. Psyche reaches out and brushes some of the dust away. What meets her eyes surprises her: it's the noble face of an older man, dressed in clothes that she has never before seen and staring boldly out at anyone who passes the picture. She doesn't recognize the type of ink used to create the picture, but there's still something beautiful about it, nonetheless.

"Who's this?" She asks aloud, wondering if anyone in the room actually knew or would answer. The man in chains-she couldn't see him as a _country, _couldn't think of him as something so powerful-growls an animalistic, rasping growl and states,

"_Mine_."

Psyche stares from him to the guards questioningly. Fisher snorts and smacks the prisoner upside his head, _hard _if the rattling chains are an indication, and shakes his head, removing his helmet.

The man standing before her is a nice enough looking man with curly auburn hair, a wide nose, and nice blue eyes. However, in the faint light of his helmet flashlight, she can see something cruel in his gaze. Fisher shrugs and returns his attention to the captive,

"An old man who once lived here," he tells her, studying the glaring nation with detached interest. Suddenly, his lip unfurl into a cruel smile and he grins over at Tailor,

"Hey, do you want to play a game?"

Tailor raises an eyebrow, silently urging the Peacekeeper to explain further.

"This bastard can heal quickly," he tells Tailor over the captive's head. Psyche shifts, not liking at all where this conversation is going. "Let's see how long it takes for him to pass out."

"That sounds about as much fun as watching grass grow," Tailor drawls sounding bored. Fisher rolls his eyes, strolls over to stand in front of the nation, crouches down in front of him, and reaches for something at his feet. When he straightens up, Fisher places his palm on the Nation's sunken cheek, ignoring the burning blue eyes fixed on him.

Psyche watches as Fisher caresses the cheek and, as his hand slides lower towards the man's neck, leaves a slowly bleeding trail in its wake.

Psyche clears her throat particularly loudly this time, trying to get both Peacekeepers' attention. She doesn't look at the country, only keeps her gaze fixed on Fisher. It's clear to her that, while Tailor won't participate in the torture, he won't stop it.

Fisher looks up irritably, as though she'd just dragged him out of a particularly fun game that he'd been looking forward to playing.

"Peacekeeper Fisher," she drawls in her best Paris voice, "I challenge you to a game of Jabs."

Fisher's eyes remain on her and his mouth tilts up into an amused smile, bemusement glowing in their blue depths. "Come on, Paris, do you really want to do that?" He asks, ignoring the prisoner and standing up straight. "You just started learning how to play that game. Do you really want to challenge the master?"

_I've been playing this game my whole life!_ She wants to say. But she remembers that Paris was born in the Capitol and they do not partake in such vulgar, barbaric games. No. their games are _far_ more advanced than mere card games.

So she shrugs her shoulders and grins behind her mask so her words will be shaped through a smile, "what better way to learn, right?"

Fisher, now looking like he had already won, straightens up and strides towards the door, his hands already reaching for the cards. He turns and bows to Psyche, motioning for her to follow him.

She does, with Tailor right in her heels, and the trio leave the room, none giving their prisoner a backwards glance before they close the door with a very definite '_click_' of the lock.

**So, you reached the end! Yeah! For some reason there's a line from Disney's Hercules running through my head,**

**'A word of caution to this tale; if Hercules should fight, you shall fail!' Weird, right? I don't know. Maybe my head is somehow connecting Snow to Hades and Katniss (or anyone, really) to Hercules. **

**Anyways, leave a comment, leave a any bad feelings behind-though I doubt that this would be the story for that...-and have an awesome day! **

**P.S. I'm kind of curious to the overall opinion of Psyche at this point is. Is she a 'likable' character or, at the very least, a fast-paced character? Would you be willing to have her as a friend, or more likely an enemy? Is she three-dimensional? flat? Mary-sue? **

**Anyways, leave your thoughts by pressing that pretty little button at the top! **


	6. The Escape

**Hey everyone! How's your life so far? Well, I hope you're having a great Friday! Let us commence with the story! Comments and greetings are appreciated. **

When the trio enters the hallway Psyche strolls over to the wall, crosses her legs at her ankle, and leans against the wall. Fisher studies her movements, his blue eyes alight with curiosity.

"Well, newbie," he begins, "do you want to play or not?"

"I need to take a piss first," she states, that being the first excuse to leave that crosses her mind. Fisher snorts and shakes his head, turning to smirk at a stoic Tailor,

"The boy's been hanging around us too long. 'I need to take a piss'," he repeats in a high pitched voice, mimicking her words. Suddenly, he beams, "by the time you get home we'll have you swearing like a proper soldier." With that, he tells her where the bathroom is-'the safer bathroom where you won't see something that'll scar you for life'-and she turns and calmly walks in the direction that he had told her about.

She walks past the bathroom that she was warned against entering and, sure enough, she can hear the sounds of deep moaning filling the empty air. She practically runs away from that room until she finds herself exactly where she needs to be.

She enters the bathroom and scopes out the small area, making sure that she was truly and completely alone. Then she subtly checks for any hidden cameras. Finding none, she locks the room and removes her helmet and the top part of her uniform, unsheathing her daggers and placing one of them in each of her boots. She then makes sure that the rope that she has wrapped around her waist is still tightly wound, and the matches are secure. Unfortunately, she no longer has her sleeper, so she'd have to wing it when the time comes and she and America are safely on their way.

She knows that she doesn't have a lot of time before someone notices that she's gone, so she places everything back on as perfectly as she can, checks herself in the mirror one last time, and replaces her helmet atop her head. She stares at her reflection, wondering what Octavius thinks whenever he looks in the mirror. Does he see a soldier? A monster? A human being?

She shakes those thoughts away, crouches down to make sure that her two choice weapons were accessible, and unlocks the door, leaving the room that she knows she'll never see again.

As she walks, more than once she passes other Peacekeepers walking around, some of them playing some stupid card game, others just lounging about and talking. She knows that many of these people were made for war and that sitting around and doing nothing was the exact opposite of what they want to do. Whenever she passes a Peacekeeper, they incline their heads to the side in greeting to a lower-ranking soldier and she ducks her head as a greeting to a higher-ranking soldier.

She makes it back to where she knows the other two are waiting and, sure enough, she rounds the corner and sees them playing Jabs, Fisher smirking and looking overly pleased with himself and Tailor looking ready to kill his fellow Peacekeeper.

"-was saying," Fisher states as Psyche stumbles over to the two men and lowers herself onto the ground, "Vice-president Jones'll be visiting in a couple of days. So, of course I'm the one stuck with the grunts, right? I mean, it's not like I want a promotion or anything to escape this fucking hellhole," with that, he turns and smile innocently at Psyche. That look alone tells her that he was definitely talking about her. Or, more accurately, about Paris.

For her part, Psyche just inclines her head to the side, all the while making one of her least attractive faces at the senior officer, grateful for the helmet hiding her face.

"So, Jones'll be here?" Tailor asks, throwing down a collection of cards that, in a fair game, would have won. Fisher sees the cards, smirks, and tosses down his pile which, of course, is perfect set.

"Oh, yeah, he'll be here. Visits every six months to make sure the prisoner's still alive, stays around long enough to eat most of our fruits and vegetables-I swear, he's the only reason we get that edible crap- and watches the new recruits." Here, the Peacekeeper nudges Psyche with his knee and leans in close. "He's here to watch you and those other two new runts from the Capitol. Who knows, maybe if you impress him long enough then you might have a chance at leaving this boring hellhole," he casts his 'prison' a contemptuous look, spits on the ground behind him, and turns his gaze back to his cards, holding the last one up with a wide grin, waving back and forth. "Come on, Tailor, two more nights Posts here that this card'll win'em all?"

Tailor throws his last card down with a venomous glare at Fisher and motions towards Psyche. "Let the runt play for me," he growls while shifting to make room for Psyche to slide closer. "Let him lose some great posts for once."

Fisher pouts but grabs the cards, shuffling them like a pro. "Come on, Tailor! Everyone knows that the newbies don't get good jobs this early on unless their mommies and daddies buy them their spots!"

"Then you should bet something else then," Tailor says slowly like he's talking to a very stubborn child. In a way, she guesses, he is. "Bet food rations or shower tokens or something!"

Fisher grumbles irritably but plays the cards, giving Psyche her stack and leaving his own in front of him. He glances up and begins talking slowly, like she's an idiot who's had to have this explained more than once in the past. Well, Paris might've had to have this explained multiple times.

"Alright," he begins slowly motioning towards their cards. "You get nine cards, right? And, when we start playing, you have to look for any matches and take those out, and then restock your house with more cards. You're trying to keep nine cards for as long as you can. These two cards," he holds up the only two cards that he hadn't shuffled with the deck, "are special. After finding you matches and taking them out, whatever cards you have left need to be in order. The closer they are in order-say you get the cards 1, 2, and 3-the more points you get. The more important the cards are-like a King or a Queen- the more points you get as well. And the fewer cards you have at the end also get you points. Now, at the end of the game when you throw down your main cards-whatever may be left-you get one of these two cards," he motions towards the two cards sitting on the ground between them, "and there you bet something-food rations, posts, shower tokens, any miscellaneous thing-and then you throw you card down. Whichever card's the highest wins."

"What if there's a tie?" Psyche asks, much like she had when she had been taught this game eight years ago. "What if the last two cards are the same?"

Fisher shrugs and starts going through his stack, "then we part ways as unlikely friends and skip into the sunset. Or, more realistically, we play again until someone wins."

"And," Psyche begins slowly, trying her best to sound like a clueless Capitol bug. "I can't bet posts because…"

"Stick with the program, Paris," Fisher snorts while Tailor watches on in bored curiosity. "You only want to bet good posts. And most of the best posts are the ones that take years to get unless mommy and daddy buy them for you. However, considering the fact that we are as far away from the Capitol as this stupid landmass would allow us, then that means mommy and daddy obviously wanted you gone. Therefore, they wouldn't waste more money than they had to on you." He pauses and, almost as an afterthought, adds, "No offense."

"Some taken," she grumbles in her best 'I'm-Paris-and-I'm-annoyed-voice.'

"Too bad," is the careless response as Fisher eyes remain glued to his cards. Psyche rolls her eyes and looks down at hers, taking out the matches and reaching for new cards. When practically all of her cards are matched and there are no more cards stacked in front of her, Psyche begins placing her cards in order. They're not a terrible house-2, 4, 5, and 7- but they're nothing to brag about. Psyche glances up at Fisher and places her cards down in front of her. When she had learned this game at eight, she would have been inordinately proud of her cards. Now, she was just annoyed.

Fisher glances down at his cards, then her cards, then his again and grins widely, proudly sliding his cards down in front of her. And 9, a Queen, and a King stare up at her and Fisher snatches one of the two cards off of the ground. Psyche reaches for the other.

"Why didn't I hear you two betting earlier?" She asks, trying to voice questions that she assumed Paris would have. She had a pretty good idea that the reason they hadn't voiced their bets aloud was because they already knew what they were betting without it being said aloud.

"Because, Peacekeepers Fisher and I are of equal ranking," Tailor, surprisingly, answers whilst Fisher just bobs his head in agreement. "So our schedules are about the same. We can afford to bet shifts that we think are either good or bad. Newbies get the worse gigs because they're stuck with the posts that no one wants."

"So," Psyche begins while playing with her unknown card. "Pretty much no one would bet posts with me?"

"Nope," Fisher answers popping his 'p' at the same time as Tailor's response of,

"No one."

"Well, that's cheerful," she grumbles, still playing with the card in hand. "So what can I bet?"

"Were you not listening a minute ago?" Fisher asks irritably, looking ready to throw his card down. "Look, you can bet anything of value: food rations, shower tokens, vacation time, that stupid bracelet that you always wear, anything. As long as it has some value. You can't bet your shifts because no one wants them. Hell, you really don't even have any right now, do you? You're too busy tailing Tailor and Skinner to do any real guarding of you own. Maybe, in a few years' time if you haven't been murdered or eaten, then you'll get some good betting opportunities, but not now."

"'Eaten'", Psyche asks, that being the only thing her mind caught in that whole rant. "What do you mean by 'eaten'? Who was eaten? And by what?"

Judging by the loud groan from Tailor and the slowly growing, wicked smile from Fisher, Psyche has the strangest feeling that she's going to regret asking.

"Many years ago," Fisher begins ominously, the affect broken by his wide smile, "there was this new guard here. He enjoyed his work at first. He enjoyed flirting with the women who took him seriously for the first time in his life and the men that treated him almost as equals. But then, he was told to guard this door," he points to the door behind them, where behind it sits the personification of their country, "and all he heard was screaming and yelling, as though someone was being tortured."

Considering what she just saw, Psyche can't help but think that he had been.

"He was ordered to stay there for days straight because back then, they didn't have schedules and shifts. Where you were placed is where you would stay until you either left, was transferred, or died. So, the boy stood in front of this door, by himself for months on end. The screaming and yelling began eating away at him, carving his mind away from the inside out. One day while guarding, no food was given that entire day-the food transfer came in late after some kind of fight in one of the Districts or something. For the next three days, no food was given to the Peacekeepers save for the little bit of food that was already here. No one could leave their posts back then, you see? So, the poor guy was stuck without food for three days, listening to that bastard screaming and yelling. Finally, the food came in and someone had the great idea to finally get food for the poor man. When the guard rounded the corner, they saw the Peacekeeper on duty sitting on the grounds, knees drawn to his chest, happily munching away on his own arm."

"Ummm…" Psyche begins, not entirely what to make of that lovely tale.

"It's a myth," Tailor response still sounding bored. He yawns loudly, driving the point home. "It's nothing more than a stupid story created out of sheer boredom by the Peacekeepers here and passed down through the years."

"Then how come they decided on recently to have shifts for the soldiers?" Fisher asks, throwing his card to the ground at his feet. Psyche blinks and mimics the motion. Unsurprisingly, her card is lower than Fisher and said guard smirks, silently asking for something.

Psyche has no idea where Paris' shower tokens are or how she'd even get his/her food tokens. As an idea forms in her head, she tries to think of several different ideas but she can't. She's not a saint, she knows. She's not like the girl on fire who would happily sacrifice herself for her family or for her friends. In fact, the only person she would have sacrificed herself for is already dead.

So, she growls under her breath, pretends to be upset (not that hard seeing as a large part of her is upset), and reaches for her bracelet. She slides her finger along the smooth edge of the jewelry and reaches for the clasp. It takes her three tries to undo the clasp before it finally comes undone. She bundles the precious bracelet in her hand, and then drops it in Fisher's outstretched palm.

Psyche wants nothing more than to smack that delighted look off of his face.

"Thank you," he drawls, shoving it in a pocket near the keys. She makes a note of that for later.

"They decided on the shifts because one of the times Vice-president Jones came to visit he noticed how tired and bored standing around in the same place made the soldiers and decided to give us a break."

"I like my story better," Fisher grumbles while reaching for the cards and shuffling them again. When he holds out his cards as an offering to play again, Psyche declines, claiming that she has nothing else to gamble.

Tailor, however, easily accepts the offer and, just like before, the two start playing. They continue their game for what feels like hours. Halfway through their fifth game, Psyche finds herself nodding off. She notices this because Fisher found the need to elbow her in the thigh.

She wants to be mad at him, but then she remembers that back home a fun game for some of the older kids to play was sneaking up on a sleeping Peacekeeper, removing their helmets, and drawing on their faces. Though they're not kids, Fisher has the maturity level of an especially cruel child and Tailor wouldn't do anything to intervene.

Imagine the surprise they'd get if they did remove her helmet!

Near an hour later, she's about to suggest to Tailor that she could help him out by nudging his legs every time she catches Fisher cheating when, suddenly, they hear yelling from inside of the room. Tailor and Psyche rise to their feet immediately, Tailor's helmet sliding back atop his head, while Fisher groans loudly and slowly pulls himself to his feet, as though it's an ordeal, and his helmet rolling carelessly to the ground.

The yelling continues as Fisher slowly begins filing through the keys, searching for the one to open the door. When he finally finds the key and unlocks the door, the trio file in, Psyche falling behind so that she can close the door behind her.

She knows that from here, no one is leaving through that door if she has anything to say about it. The light that had illuminated the room when the door was open soon vanishes as the door falls shut. She can hear Fisher grumbling something about 'you didn't have to close the damned door, newbie' while Tailor turns on his helmet's flashlight. The light casts the room in eerie shadows and both men step in front of the captive, their backs to her.

Psyche knows that even if these suits seem infallible and unbreakable, even the best armour has its flaws. She knows that there are places in the armour that lay uncovered, allowing the Peacekeeper's body to move with as much freedom as possible. Many of the Peacekeepers, having lived in District 2, were trained at an early age on how to control their bodies and its movements. With that much control, then the amour they wear must be able to accommodate their actions.

She knows that there's a particularly wide vulnerable spot right at the back of the neck. A place where the helmet stops and, though it's a very small target, the neck of the uniform starts. Most Peacekeeper's place some kind of cloth or metal brace to protect the cervical vertebrae, the area left unprotected by the helmet and uniform.

Right now, she can see that Tailor, no doubt feeling protected by the fact the he's hundreds of miles away from any rebel group that might want to kill him, has opted for the less protective, yet more comfortable decision of just wearing the assigned uniform and nothing else. She can see, even in the shadowed room, the dark skin that covers his cervical vertebrae. Still watching them, she quietly crouches down, reaches for one of the daggers that are hidden in her boots, and releases it from its hidey-hole, easily clutching it in her hand.

She knows which guard has to go first. Tailor, though not quick to a fight, has the tell-tale signs of being from 2: he has the look in his eyes, the lined face, the body shape, and, from she what she can see, the upper body strength. He's a powerful fighter and she knows that in a fair fight, the odds weren't in her favor. He also has the helmet and, if she killed Fisher first, than he would have the time to call for back-up which is something Psyche really doesn't want to deal with right now. Fisher, on the other hand, she can tell he's not from 2. He's too happy, too ready to fight-almost as though he's never seen the light of battle. His body is smaller, more fit, like for some kind of machinist. He's thin and lithe and, though he's taller than her, she has the feeling that she could beat him. Or, at the very least, outsmart him.

Her mind wanders, surprisingly, to both Cato and Clove in their last minute of the Games. Though their attitudes and flippancy towards everyone else's deaths grated, it didn't show any kind of mind condition. Rather, that they've all been so conditioned to fighting and killing that such things no longer bothered them. Psyche, she knows, is much the same in that respect: shouldn't she feel something over the death of that Paris boy? He was the first person she'd ever killed and yet the only thing she felt was a strange sort of detachment. Is there something wrong with her?

_Worry about that later_, her mind tells her, already coming up with a dozen of different ways to dispatch Tailor and Fisher.

Trying not to think too much about it, Psyche grips the dagger in her hand and calmly walks forward. She doesn't even pause in step when she raises the dagger above her head and rams it into the back of Tailor's neck. He doesn't even have the time utter a sound as the blade travels through his cervical vertebrae. She quickly removes the dagger with as much force as she can. His body stiffens for a second and then relaxes, falling to the side in a heap on the ground.

Fisher's only reaction to this is to jump back, as though bitten or stung by something. The light from Tailor's helmet is stuck on a fixed point on the wall.

Psyche can see Fisher's surprise, the widening of the man's eyes and the shock in his gaze. Part of her wants to remove her helmet, just to give him the honour of seeing his killer face-to-face. But then she remembers the cruel delight he took in torturing America and decides that Tailor was the more honorable of the two and, because he didn't get to see his killer-egad, he was stabbed in the _back_-then a worm like Fisher definitely didn't deserve to see her face.

_Deserve?_, her mind whispers mockingly, _what are you? A god or something?_

Psyche ignores that voice and lunges at Fisher with her blood-covered dagger, watching his every move and trying to find some weakness.

Beneath his armpits where there's an opening that allows for more movement of the arms? The space between his lower stomach and waist where you can remove the uniform? The largest target, she knows, would be his uncovered head. That would be the most obvious target, the one that most people would automatically go for.

_You're trying to kidnap someone_, her mind hisses_, not make a record for most creative killer_.

Fisher dodges, his actions slow due to his shock and surprise. More evidence that he's not from 2: he lets his shock control him. Psyche stumbles over a fallen chair just as Fisher's mind seems to come to terms with everything that's just happened.

He takes full advantage of Psyche's distraction and throws himself at her, his dead weight overpowering her and casting her to the floor, her dagger skidding a good foot away from her. Before she can reach out and grab it, Fisher grabs her by the throat, his fingers tightening painfully around the vulnerable opening, and slams her into a glass mirror that she hadn't seen earlier. Pain shatters her mind for a second as pieces of glass cut into her arms, even though they're covered by two uniforms.

Fisher releases her throat, releases his only hold on her and she slides to the ground, landing on a pile of glass that now cuts into the back of her legs and her ass. The jagged, cutting pain is like fire and yet, it helps clear her mind from the mist of pain of the impact. Having lost her dagger and not wanting to alert him of her other one, Psyche groans and reaches behind her, subtly grasping for a shard of glass large enough that it could be used as a weapon.

She glances up and watches Fisher approach her, the small light in the room illuminating the cruel dancing of his eyes.

She realizes something then, something she should have seen when he was happily dragging a piece of glass across the sunken cheeks of a weaponless prisoner: he's more of a Capitol mutt than she is. Hell, than any 2 citizen would ever be. She remembers his accent from when he first spoke to her-it was something strangely familiar, yet distant at the same time. Something that had set her on edge. Now she realizes what it was-what it _is_.

The accent is just like Paris' had been, but covered in years' worth of trying to hide it, trying to cover it so no one could see just what a crazy person from the Capitol looks like.

She's heard rumors about people like Fisher back home in 2: people that the Capitol saw as 'sick' and incapable of living with civilized people. So, they were thrown into Peacekeeper training and sent off to unknown locations after graduating. Of course, the people who were given this opportunity were only the people whose families' could afford sending their children/grandchildren/ whatever off to a facility and could also afford keeping this humiliation quiet.

No one's ever heard about people who couldn't afford it.

Fisher laughs, the sound low and unhinged. She can imagine this man being the type of child that caught birds and set their wings on fire to a) see how the bird reacted and b) to hear it scream. If he had a sibling, she could see him throwing heavy and sharp things them to watch them fall or react; breaking their bones just to see the fear in their eyes; nearly drowning them to show that they have absolute power over them.

He's the type of person the Capitol would use to set the world on fire and then he would watch as everything burned to the ground in front of him. No emotion, no regret, nothing. Chances are, he'd probably be laughing the entire time.

He steps closer to her; pointedly stepping around her legs like he's making a point-he could step on her, if he wants. But, as he has the power, he won't. Not yet at least.

The jagged glass piece digs into her skin as her hands tighten into fists. He crouches down and looks right into her eyes, despite them being covered by a visor.

"You're not Paris," he tells her conversationally, still smiling an easy smile while his eyes glow wickedly. He reaches for her helmet and she automatically shifts her head away from him. "Ah, ah, ah," he clucks like she's a disobedient child. "None of that, now. I'm trying to see who it is that I have to hand over to Vice president Jones when he gets here. Who knows, maybe if you're a wanted criminal I can finally get some kind of a promotion or something."

With that, and a very pointed hand pressing her leg down against a pile of glass, he removes her helmet. When he casts it to the side, he studies her with a faint smile, his eye dragging up and down her face and her uniform clad body. When he reaches for her chin, she flinches away. He clucks disapprovingly and grabs her chin, his nails digging into the flesh.

"Pretty eyes," he tells her conversationally, "I mean, I can't really see them right now, but what I can see the dark shape, the outline of the eyes. That's a nice shape though. Big, too. Did you know the 'Ancients'-God, I love you District 1 and 2 people, you come up with the best names!-used to say that the 'eyes were the window to the soul'? Maybe it was one of the few things they actually said that made sense but I disagree. See, looking at you, I wouldn't suspect that you'd be the type of person to kill a man with his back turned or a boy without any former skill. I could see you easily fighting someone who was an even match for you, but not someone who was clearly not. And me, well, either my eyes are shaded too well for anyone to see my 'soul' or I don't have one. Or, my 'soul' is black to match the inside of my body. Are souls in the body?"

The question catches him-and Psyche, if she's being completely honest with herself-by surprise and leaves the two in silence for a minute. Fisher shakes his head,

"Well, who knows, right? After all, the Ancients had a lot of zany sayings, 'never bite the hand that feeds you', 'the early bird get the worm', and they were so picturesque! It's a shame that they never saw the world for what it was. I know what the world is like. Do you?"

"Cruel," she bites out, swinging her hand around and slamming the glass bit deep into the space between where the neck meets the side part of the chest. Her teachers back home had spent years teaching about the human anatomy and weak points, had made her name the bones, yet somehow she couldn't even begin to remember the name of the point.

Fisher screams and falls back, the glass piece still embedded in his skin. Psyche drags herself to her feet, ignoring the fire that spreads through her body and reaches for her other dagger. When she removes it from her boot, she tries to ignore the bits of blood the color the glove of her uniform. Instead, she darts forward, drops on top of Fisher, and straddles him, her side of the dagger digging into his throat. He stares up at her, his cruel eyes alight with hate and curiosity. Hate, she knows, because she had just stabbed him. Was the curiosity because he's wondering if she'll stab him again?

"You know," she says before she can stop herself, "in another world, you'd be very attractive."

"No," he corrects as droplets of blood-both his and hers-pool around the dagger and down to his chest. "In another world, I'd be the same. The treatment might be different but I'd always be me."

"A monster without a conscious?"

"Why should I apologize for the monster I've become when no one'll apologize for making me this way?"

"Pretty words."

"In this world or another I'm still me," he tells her, seeming to ignore the dagger at his throat and the blood spilling around it. "Whether I'd be wearing a suit and tie or a Peacekeeper uniform, I'm still me. The way people see me would be different, though."

"You'd watch the world burn with a smile on your face," she growls, not sure why she's having a conversation with him when she needs to leave as soon as possible.

"And dance on the ashes," he adds, still smiling, though the cruel look is gone and, in its place, is the same burning curiosity. "But, the thing is, I know I'm a monster. Do you?"

"I am not a monster!" she growls, though her hand remains still and the dagger remains at exactly the same spot.

"Really? See, I think everyone's a monster, just different stages. I'm a monster that's finally reached enlightenment-I understand and accept me. Everyone else is stumbling around trying to place the title of 'monster' on the heads of those who they think deserve the title. The reason they lock me up and look down on me? Easy. They're scared of me. Scared that they can see the monster inside of themselves, staring back at them. They see themselves in me. The people that accept me accept the fact that I'm just a projection of themselves. We're sent away, 'fixed', and what then? The reason we're treated so harshly is because people see that they can and just might become like me and they try to get rid of that fear. By getting rid of me, they get rid of what they might become. Snow's acting the same way with the famed girl on fire."

"Snow… afraid? Snow isn't afraid of some love-struck girl," Psyche scoffs, wanting to end this little chat permanently but struck by the ease at which he speaks.

"He's more afraid then you realize," Fisher answers, still smiling. "So, little monster, what do you think? Think you can accept what you are?"

"I'm not a monster!"

"But you are running out of time," he responds easily, "Soon, the shifts'll be changing and the guards along with it."

"I-I'm going to kill you."

"Good, because if you don't I'll happily hunt you down and cut you where you stand."

Psyche stares into the deep blue, curious eyes. Her gaze never leaves his until the light completely fades. When she rises from her position, her everything is sore, her arms and the front of her uniform are both covered in blood. She reaches for the keys that rest on the Peacekeeper's belt. She also grabs the bracelet.

She slowly rises to her feet and when she reaches that standing position, something pools into her stomach and slowly rises up to her throat, leaving a disgusting, burning trail in its wake. It takes her a second to grasp that she about to be sick and when she does, she turns and falls to her knees, one arm clutching the solid ground beneath her, the other wrapped tightly around her waist, and violently retches.

When the sickness fades, she grabs the keys that she had dropped, wipes her mouth with the back of her blood-covered hand, and straightens up. She walks towards the prisoner and studies him. He looks worse, his face is covered in blood, and he's staring down at the ground, breathing hard. She steps closer, and hears an odd cracking sound, like she's just stepped on glass.

Frowning, she crouches low to the ground and reaches for whatever it is that she's just stepped on. Her bloody hand comes back up with a broken piece of glass that looks like a single breath would completely shatter it into oblivion. She twirls the piece around her finger-

-and the country before her lunges forward, snarling like an animal and glaring at her with burning, unnatural blue eyes. His head collides with her lip and his hands reach out, as though wanting to grab her.

She falls flight on her ass, her lip throbbing, and stares at him for a beat. Then, she pulls herself to her feet and walks towards the door, opens it, and then closes the door, locking it so that no one would be the wiser on what transpired within the room.

She eyes the hunched figure from her position and slowly walks around towards him. She almost reaches him when she feels her feet step on something surprisingly soft. She looks down and sees some kind of cloth at her feet. She bends over, scoops it up, balls it up, and places it in her suit, promising herself to look at it later.

She then walks closer to the figure and drops down on her knees in front of him. This time, though, her actions are slower, calmer, showing that she isn't a threat. She shows him the key in her hand and slowly lifts her hand to one of the rusted chains holding him. When she places the key in the lock and twists, the rustic, though definite '_click_' of a lock follows. America's hand falls weightlessly to the ground, as does that entire side of his body. America studies her through hazy eyes, this time confused. She reaches for the other hand and the same routine ensues. The hand drops and America sits there on his knees, slowly rubbing each wrist, not flinching when the action opens up some fresh cuts.

"Mine?" He rasps out slowly, not seeming familiar with someone actually helping him for a change. She nods and removes the upper half of the uniform, grabs the cloth from before, and un-balls it, tearing two pieces of fabric. She quickly places everything back in its place, reaches for his ruined hand, and places it on her thigh, wrapping it in the cloth. She sees some red and white on the cloth as she wraps his wrist but decides about asking for later. All her questions, she decides, will be answered later.

When she finishes wrapping one hand, she goes to the other, gently wrapping it the same way Cassius once wrapped her bloody knuckles. She grabs both of his blood-covered hands in hers and looks right into his dark-blue eyes,

"Yours," she answers evenly.

He sways where he sits and then his eyes roll back and he collapses on top of her, his frail body much lighter than she though it would be.

**So, what do you think? Personally, I think this is one of the weirder chapters that just got away from me. I wanted this scene to be quick and I never really intended for Psyche to have a conversation with Fisher. I don't know if its come across but Fisher reminds me a bit of Cato at the end of 'The Hunger Games'. I wouldn't say he's evil, maybe misguided? I don't know. He's cruel and he accepts that and he doesn't want to-doesn't _try_ to change. He kind of accepts himself. Did anyone else see this coming with Fisher? Of the two, Tailor was kind of the 'honorable' one whereas Fisher just kind of _was_. **


	7. A New Age

**Yeah! Chapter 7 is up and ready! To be honest, this is slightly a filler chapter even though I'm still kind of proud of it. Enjoy it! **

Arthur stands tall as the boy, Aurik Färber, is sworn in; his dark hair is lined with grey streaks and brushed back from his face and his smiling blue-grey eyes are sharp. Beside him, Francis turns his head to the side, stifling a cough.

There was always an unwritten agreement amongst the countries that, whenever something large-like a royal wedding of any kind or an inauguration ceremony-all the countries are invited. The invitations were usually formally sent to the respective countries' ruler of the time and the countries themselves usually join their rulers.

Today, Arthur stands in the back of the Reichstag building with Francis, Ludwig, Feliciano, Yao, Ivan and a bored Gilbert. Throughout the room, many other countries are gathered, easily concealed within the large crowd. Arthur can see Peter, having grown a few centimeters in the last years, standing on his toes and of few of the Nordic countries watching the swearing in with interest. Beside him, Ludwig is standing tall with his chest thrown out, his face expressionless but his eyes smiling proudly.

"…_meine Pflichten gewissenhaft erfüllen und Gerechtigkeit gegen jedermann . So wahr mir Gott helfe," _Färber intones, a small smile growing on his face. Arthur watches as, after he finishes the Oath, he smiles down at a group of people in front of him, no doubt his family. Arthur nudges Ludwig, forcing his attention away from the display,

"High hopes for the lad?"

"_Ja_," Germany responds with a small smile that's so rarely seen. "I have much hope for the boy."

"Has he met you yet?" Francis asks, joining the conversation with a saucy wink at a nearby female reporter. Arthur makes an irritated growling noise in the back of his throat and glares at Francis. The Frog shrugs, and returns his attention to both countries.

"President Pfeiffer has introduced us already, though he said that I vas an old family friend."

Francis grins at that, looking more amused than the moment calls for. "Did he say how old?"

"Are you already drunk?" Arthur asks in disbelief, staring at the nation in surprise. Francis shrugs and winks at the two before sauntering away. Arthur 'tsks' but looks back at Ludwig who's still smiling. Slightly. A little bit. If you know what to look for.

"I do not blame him," Ludwig answers quietly as the two watch the new German President shake the hand of his predecessor who begins leading him towards Germany. Arthur glances over his shoulder only to see that Yao, Ivan, and Feliciano have already wandered off, leaving him alone with Ludwig and Gilbert, who looks to be falling asleep against the wall. "Much has happened to him in the last few days."

Arthur grimaces at the reminder, "I know. But, still-"

"_Verdammet_," Ludwig snaps suddenly under his breath, glaring at his brother. With a look at the new and old Presidents that are slowly drawing closer, Ludwig glares at Gilbert and subtly kicks his brother in the leg. Hard.

Gilbert snaps to attention, only to meet Ludwig's glare.

"That vas not awesome," Gilbert growls, running a hand through his hair and casting the younger boy one last glare before sinking into the crowd. Pfeiffer and Färber stop in front of the two before Ludwig had a chance to say anything scathing at his brother's back.

Arthur watches as his friend schools his features into another half-smile, not seeming forced in the slightest, and greets his new boss. Former President Pfeiffer glances at Arthur, smiles, and then reaches out his hand. Arthur returns both the gesture and the greeting before reaching for President Färber's hand.

After all greetings are out of the way, all formalities completed, Pfeiffer begins explaining-in English, so as not to leave Arthur out, though his German's gotten much better over the years-and both Arthur and Ludwig watch in amusement as the new president's eyes widen and he glances wide-eyed between the two countries.

"But-" he begins, only to trail off. "I-how?"

"Ve do not know," Ludwig supplied helpfully, his hands respectfully behind his back. "Ve just _are_."

"And, you're-" again, he trails off, looking at Arthur would the same wide eyes. Arthur bites down a laugh,

"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland at your service," and, with that, he allows a slight smile to the man. "Also known as England."

Ludwig rolls his eyes but doesn't frown down at the man. "And I am Germany," Ludwig tells him. Färber looks at the personification of his country and reaches for his hand once again standing, if possible, even taller,

"I shall do my best by you," the man says strongly, pumping Ludwig's hand twice in a strong grip.

"And I, you," Ludwig answers formally, inclining his head to the side. Färber glances around the small quartet, as though to make sure no one's eavesdropping and then asks,

"Are there more countries here?"

"Yes," Arthur answers with his smile growing at the man's attitude, "We're all over. Many of them are standing near their own bosses or else circulating throughout the room.

For his part, Färber just studies the room around him with the wide, twinkling eyes of a child on Christmas. "A-and they're all here?"

"No," Ludwig answers, also studying the young man before him. Pfeiffer just looks wholly amused at the younger man's reaction. "Some of the nations could not make it, or their bosses could not make it."

"What countries are here?" Färber asks, still looking around. When he finally turns back to look at his elders and sees their expressions, his eyes shift to something sheepish. "I mean, ahh, if you are at a liberty to tell me."

"I don't see vhy not," surprisingly Pfeiffer answers, having met most of them at least once. Most of their bosses have met the other personifications at least once. "Russia is over there, talking vith Denmark; Normandy, China, and Iceland are by speaking with vone of the reporters; France is speaking vith Jordan and Israel; Saudi Arabia and Egypt look ready to murder France; and… that's all I can see right now."

Färber, having followed the 'introduction' with interest, continues glancing around the room, as though trying to find some more.

"There are some South American countries, young Canada is here somewhere as is Sealand, and my own dear siblings are here somewhere," Arthur adds, the last part becoming slightly muffled through his teeth. Färber, still looking astonished, turns to face both countries.

"Is America here? Or, does America have a personification?"

The silence that follows isn't awkward, but it is heavy. As his eyes jump from Arthur to Ludwig to the Former President, his smiles slowly dims, just slightly.

"D-does America not have a personification?"

"America does," Arthur quickly assures the man as he and Ludwig share a look, wondering how they're going to tell this idealistic man that one of their closest allies hasn't been seen in seventy-five years. "He just… hasn't been very open lately."

"I am avare of that," Färber tells them, his eyes jumping from one nation to the next. "I know about America closing herself-or himself, I guess I should say-off and claiming isolationism, save for imports and exports. I know about my duties vhen it comes to them. I also-"

Here, his voice trails off and he looks between the three older men, his gaze shrewd and his eyes flitting from one to the other.

"To be honest," he tells them, "theirs is much I do not know about this-any of this, the countries, the personification of the countries, anything-but I vould very much like to learn."

Arthur studies the fire in his eyes, a fire that is shared by his English counterpart, and he finds himself smiling at the man.

"Ask avay then," Ludwig answers. Färber beams and does just that.

…

Near an hour later, the new President and the two nations are seated around one of the tables in the almost empty room, Arthur casually leaning back while Ludwig leans forward, trying to explain as much as his own history as he knows.

"-and England," the man says suddenly, glancing at the Island nation. "You have a ceremony coming soon as vell, _ja_?"

"Yes," Arthur answers, trying to keep up with the conversation. Halfway through, the two began speaking in rapid German. Though he learned a lot of the language, he couldn't keep up very well with two native speakers. "The Coronation of his Royal Highness Prince Arthur of Wales. You will be coming of course?"

Färber nods his head, his expression saying 'of course!' Arthur smiles at the human's enthusiasm. The man's expression sobers and he glances around the room, as though searching for eavesdroppers. When none reveal themselves, he continues, "Former President Pfeiffer has spoken to me about this sudden interest to send spies into a neutral territory. Vas this his doing, or yours?"

Both countries, startled by the accusation of sorts, stare at the man in silence. Finally, Ludwig rubs the bridge of his nose, looking tired.

"It vas ours," he tells his boss, looking him straight in the eye. "Surely you have heard the rumours? They circulate like vild vithin many of our cities."

"But vhere vould the rumours have started?" Färber counters. Despite his words, Arthur could tell that the man was less trying to talk them out of it, and more trying to play devil's advocate. "If they are true, then surely the country vould have done everything in his power to stop it."

"You confuse the country and those who run the country," Arthur corrects the man, leaning forward in his seat. "Those are two very different things. _We_ are the country," he motions between Ludwig and himself, "us. We are our own beings; we have our own thoughts and opinions, though often times those are shaped by the opinion of the population. However, you are speaking about what we consider our 'bosses', our government officials. Can we disagree with them? Of course. It's happened many times over the years. Do we have much control over the choices they make? No. We have no more control over a single person than you do."

"Vould America have…" Färber trails off, as though not entirely sure what he wanted to say. He tries again, "vould America have… _agreed_ vith the-vith his government in terms of the rumours?"

"_Nein_," Ludwig answers, almost immediately. "America vas… rude. He vas annoying. He vas much like an overactive _junger Hund _on sugar. But he vas not cruel. He did not take joy in vatching people suffer, even less so vhen it came to his people.

"Then does that mean the rumours are false?" Färber asks, leaning forward on his elbows. Arthur saw that their conversation igniting a fire in the young lad's eyes.

"All rumours have to start from somewhere," Arthur tells the young man. "They don't just appear out of nowhere. Someone had to have started them and there must be some fact or another for these rumours to have escalated the way they have."

"Are you asking my permission?" Färber questions curiously, looking from one country to another.

"We're asking for some action to be taken," Ludwig corrects him, looking uncomfortable as the man's eyes settle on him. Färber studies the two quietly for a long minute, seeming intent to try and find something in the nations' eyes. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"I cannot ask to send military… _anything_ into a neutral territory-and our allies to boot!-vithout some type of former consent. My Cabinet vould think me mad!"

As nations did not slump, Ludwig and Arthur's next action would not be considered a _slump_. More like a slide. Into their seats. In defeat.

"But, if given proper evidence that our ally needed assistance then I-and I hope, many others-vould be villing to send _aid_. Not military supplies; aid."

When both countries nod in assent to the terms of the agreement, Färber turns his inquisitional gaze to Arthur.

"Vith all due respect, _Herr_, vhat is your interest in the matter? I can understand Germany having some kind of relationship with a country that has helped it over the years-in fact, _mein_ Opa vould tell me grand tales about his youth, growing up beneath a blue sky, surrounded by golden grain-by vhy are you so concerned vith this matter? From my understanding, you and he had a bit of a rocky relationship, I believe the phrase is. Vhy now?"

Arthur studies the sharp boy, his mind falling back to the conversation he and Ludwig had shared earlier. This does seem to be the dawning of a new age. He stares at the man solemnly, not dropping his gaze,

"Though he is a fool, he is my fool. He has a family and a brother that, though we won't say it aloud, that worry for him. These rumours are worrisome enough as is, but if something has happened to the boy then we, as a family, are inclined to help."

Before Färber has a chance to reply, a little girl with dark hair and bright eyes runs up to him, grabbing onto his arms and rambling away in German. Though he looks vaguely sheepish at the interruption, he picks the girls up, places her on his lap, and introduces the child to the two nations.

The little girl, Ava is her name, studies them with wide, solemn eyes that do not seem to match her outburst.

Arthur chuckles at the child and rises from his seat, forcing the other two do the same as well. He reaches for Ludwig's hand, "it was good seeing you again, old friend. And I shall see you soon, I expect," then he turns to President Färber, "the same, I believe, can be said about you. I shall see you both within the coming week." He then turns to Ava and bows, bending slightly at the waist, more for her amusement than anything else. Sure enough, the child buries her face in her father's shoulder as an attempt to stifle her giggling, "Ava."

With that, Arthur makes his leave, wandering if there's a way he can seat Francis as far away from Gilbert as possible. With Francis' attitude and Gilbert's _tact_, the two might start a duel right in the middle of the Coronation.

….

Two days have passed since the escape.

At least, Psyche thinks two days have passed. They escaped sometime during that night-possibly around midnight if the moon was any indication-and Psyche had practically dragged the collapsed nation through the woods, doing her best to avoid any of the guards, or watchtowers, or wild life. She had run (cough_stumbled_cough) straight through the forest for the remainder of the night into the next morning (did that count as two days?). She continued running until her legs practically gave up on her and even then, she continued on until she found a nice enough hiding spot near a river.

Which is where she now waits, repeatedly splashing her hands in the water, hoping that it was clean and that she wouldn't get some kind of bacterial infection.

"I _would_ die like that," she grumbles aloud, keeping her voice low. "No soldier's death for me, nope! Just the girl who got ahold of something bad in the water and died. Because of nature."

How pathetic.

She groans and scrubs her wrists, trying to get most of the dirt and blood out of her skin and just for the sake of having something to do.

America should be where she left him: in the fetal position beneath her 13 uniform and mumbling something about 'clocks'. Psyche cleaned some of the worse-off wounds as soon as they had stopped running-after having to gag America after he woke up screaming. She then had to knock him out. Not one of her shining minutes.

At her side is her bow and the urge to go hunting is insurmountable. The urge to do _anything_, to be honest, is tempting. In the cave behind her sleeps the nation and, considering the wounds that'd been inflected on him, there is a pretty good chance that he'll be out for a few hours.

Of course, they don't have a few hours. As soon as she gets cleaned up enough and gets some food in her system, they have to be on their way. Chances are America will still be sleeping so it won't be that hard to carry him anywhere. Which leads her to the fact that she's practically carrying a man-boy _thing_, who stands nearly a head-and-a-half, almost two heads over her, and she can easily drag him through dense woods lined with vines. As much as part of her wants to proudly say it's because she's stronger than she looks, she knows that the real reason behind that is because the man's nothing more than bones covered in a layer of meat.

She hesitates and stares from the canopy forest around her, to her bow, and back. There's wildlife, she knows: they'd left tracks for her to follow. All she has to do is walk away for a minute, maybe ten and she can come back with a squirrel or rabbit or something. Maybe even some berries.

She glances over her shoulder at the cave wherein lies the personification of a country that holds the hopes and possible future of an entire population and back out into the woods, where lies food.

She grabs her bow and begins walking towards the woods.

…

She crouches down in the dense underbrush and waits for the perfect moment. Around her the birds are still singing and the forest is alive with the sound of every possible living thing. In front of her stands a slight deer with her young offspring. The baby deer is bounding around, looking for all the world like a carefree creature.

To get the nutrients they both need, she knows that the baby will do them some good. Chances are, she can also get some skin off of it to make some kind of blanket for America because she knows that his own skin isn't keeping him very warm.

Prepared to strike, she slowly reaches for one of her arrows, twirls the weapon around her fingers (a habit that she's had for years) and nocks the arrow, keeping her body relaxed and breathing slowly. She draws the arrow and is just about to shoot when the mother looks up from where she's grazing.

Right at Psyche.

Psyche's eyes widen and she loses her balance, falling back down on her ass like the noble hunter that she is. Both the mother and baby study her with large brown eyes. She scrambles to regain herself and, again, nocks the arrow, pointing it straight at the fawn. Neither the mother nor the fawn look worried. In fact, the fawn tilts its head to the side as though curious to see what'll happens next and the mother returns to grazing.

She stares at both of them a minute longer, trying to come to grips with the fact that neither of these defenseless animals is at all worrying about the hunter and her bow.

"They've never been hunted before," a raspy male voice tells her from somewhere behind her. Faster than a breath, she spins on her heels, weapon ready to strike and to kill.

Before he stands a man that's nothing more than a walking skeleton. Albeit, a better looking skeleton compared to a couple of nights ago, but still a skeleton.

Bow still ready, she very slowly lowers the weapon, removing the arrow from its perch and putting it behind her. The bow remains firmly in her hands because she knows that even without an arrow the bow is still a formidable weapon.

His words register and she feels something grow in the pit of her stomach.

_It's not fair_, part of her mind whines, sounding like a petulant child.

Deal with it, she tells that part while her fingers remain firmly wrapped around her bow. This is the hand you were dealt. Complaining about it won't help.

"Looks who's up and about," she drawls lazily, hiding her surprise and searching the trees for any kind of rat or breakfast. She needs to eat and, now that he's up, so does he. "Get tired of being tired?"

America studies her, his bloodshot eyes squinting and his head tilted to the side. Psyche blinks,

"Hello? Did you hear me? Should I repeat the question?"

"You're mine?" He asks, sounding bewildered. She makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat,

"I'm _mine_, okay? I don't belong to anyone."

"But you're American?"

"A merry can? What's that?"

He makes a huffing noise that sounds painful. Which reminds her…

"You should still be sleeping," she tells him firmly, taking a step towards him and making as though to push him back to the cave. He flinches when her fingers brush too close to him but he follows her orders like a child. "You need to get better and doing that will make things a lot easier."

When the two make it back to the cave, Psyche all but forces him back down to the ground with an irate, 'get your ass down there, old man!' America's response is unsurprisingly snappy but Psyche doesn't see that as an insult. Rather, like his fire is slowly coming back to him.

Of course, then he opens his mouth,

"A-mare-i-can," he emphasizes slowly, his voice still raspy. Psyche wants to tell him to stop talking and preserve his energy but, who knows, maybe this conversation will tire him out. "It's what my people called-_call_ themselves."

"The first tense is more accurate," Psyche answers flatly, finding a seat on the wall opposite the nation, sliding down to her butt, and then crossing her legs. She places her elbows on her knees and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. "No one's been called that for a long time. In fact, a week or so ago was the first time I've even heard of the name 'America.' It sounds like a disease, to be honest."

"What's your name?" He asks, sounding annoyed. She can't really tell, though, if he is or not because his throat just sounds destroyed.

"My name's Psyche," she tells him, preparing for a long discussion/lecture. "I'm from District 2 but recently I've been AWOL and am now citizen to 13."

"District…" he mutters slowly as though the word is unfamiliar to him. Psyche rolls her eyes and leans forward, holding her hands up,

"Okay, before the Dark Days there were 13 Districts, okay? Then the District rebelled. History says that District 13 was destroyed and the people were all killed. From then until quite recently, everyone's just assumed that District 13 is gone. But, now, we-at least _I_- know it's not."

He looks like he's about to ask something, winces, and brushes his fingers against one of the newer cuts that had opened up the night before and started bleeding. She had torn another small strip from the giant thing she had taken from D.C. and used that to bandage the wound. She remembers something Coin had told her earlier,

'_Each country was shaped by their people and their land. During a war, the country's exterior would reflect this.'_

Could the Hunger Games be shaping America?

"To punish the Districts for the uprising," she continues, eyeing America for any signs of recognition, "the Capitol created 'The Hunger Games' wherein 2 Tributes from each District is sent into an arena to fight and die, a boy and a girl. The winner receives glory and honor and stuff. The losers received a quick burial."

"Mine," he mutters, sounding absolutely dejected. He slumps forward for a second, looking like an old doll that's been thrown around and then does something that surprises her.

He straightens in his seat, a determined, skeletal smile on his face.

Psyche frowned at him, wondering what the stupid smile was about. "Are you okay?"

"We can fix this," America croaks, somehow making that sound like a proud declaration. Psyche frowns at him,

"Have you suffered any permanent brain damage?"

He ignores her and continues, "if you can take me to your base of action, I can heal and-"

Whatever he was about to say is cut off when he tries to straighten even more and flinches. Psyche glares at him irritably.

"I hope you know that if you open any of the wounds I've bandaged than you'll be required to clean them and the mess you make up yourself?"

America turns and coughs into his hand; Psyche has to force her gaze from the red liquid that appears on the bony flesh. He turns and looks at her, swaying slightly in spot.

"Look, just take me to the main base for the rebellions and I'll-"

"No," she interrupts flatly, not even bothering to hear what he has to say more. "Coin ordered me to get you out of the Capitol's hands and out of the country and so I will do just that."

"But the hero," he tries, his voice almost sounding like a whine. He breaks off and coughs another liquid sounding cough. "The hero has to help his people!"

"The people don't need a hero," she tells him somewhat cynically, "they need a miracle and some creepy young person-_country_ who just escaped from a high security prison is hardly the answer to what they're looking for. Plus, the world needs fewer _heroes._"

America frowns at her, "everyone needs a hero!"

"No, we don't," she tells him flatly. "_Heroes_ never make it out of anything alive. _Heroes _never live to see the fruits of their labor. _Heroes _are idiots that think they can change the world. So, no, the world doesn't need more heroes if there's even a world out there!"

"Of course there's a world out there," America mutters, sounding tired. Finally, when he falls asleep, she can go hunting for berries and nuts. "Iggy wouldn't let anyone win and Mattie is stubborn. Good ole' Ludwig is too smart to fade and Yao and Ivan and Kiku wouldn't give in to anything. They're too strong to fade."

"Then where are they?" She hisses, not wanting to get into a fight but feeling the need to get some anger out of her system. And being slightly confused at the random names. "If these… _countries_ are as great as you claim, then where are they? Where were the when 12 year-old Rue died? Where were they when the first weapon was thrown in the first Hunger Games? Where were they 75 years earlier? Maybe these countries aren't so _great_ after all, huh?"

"Iggy is G'ate Brit'n," Alfred mutters, his eyes looking heavy and already half-closed. "Fra'c'is stubb'rn and Mattie's m'brother. M' fam'ly'll help."

"Keep living in you dream world," Psyche grumbles as America falls to sleep. She prods him twice with her bow, making sure he's asleep-or unconscious, whatever-and then stands up, making for the woods to find some berries for them to eat.

**Welp, they finally speak! What do you think? I still love Alfred even though he's nearly dead and i have high hopes for Färber. Who knows, it may just be the dawning of a new age. I really like the friendship springing up between England and Germany. I say that's a real keeper. I think this chapter is a bit of a filler chapter but they need to talk while wandering through the forest and they have. Any favorite characters so far? Leave a PM, comment, anything and a happy Friday!**


	8. Through the Forest

**Yeah! Chapter 8 is up! Do the escapee and his helper finally get a conversation? Will anyone catch them? Read and find out! **

Vice president Jones circles the room, eyeing the two dead bodies, the bloody carpet, and the empty chains. The Peacekeepers assigned to watch him are visibly sweating.

"And no one knows who did this or where they went?" He asks quietly, anger dripping into his words. The Peacekeepers who were supposed to take Tailor and Fisher's posts a few hours ago shift uneasily. Jones turns to glare at the two. "Well? Does anyone have an answer?"

"We don't know who it is," One of the Peacekeepers answers standing up straight-Jones can see the worry lining his shoulders and eyes.

Before Jones can comment on their complete lack of usefulness, four Peacekeepers stride into the room, carrying a slight body between them.

The body is that of a young boy with dark, curly hair and a light build. His eyes are closed and there's a large red spot on his chest. One of the guards steps forward.

"Peacekeeper Paris Shepherd," says a young male voice. The speaker continues, "Found atop a decaying building, uniform gone, and any jewelry or personal assets that may have been on him are gone as well. His parents are from the Capitol and sent him here as a punishment for crimes we have yet to uncover."

"Could the boy have been a spy and then killed for knowing too much?" Jones asks, eyeing the young Peacekeeper before him. The young man in question shakes his head. Vice president Jones bites down an irritated growl; oh, how he hates the new uniforms that hide the faces and make it harder to see who is and isn't lying. Now, because of this very flaw, their prisoner has escaped and three Peacekeepers are dead.

Vice president Jones stands out. He knows this and uses this to his advantage. He doesn't look nearly as old as Snow nor does he look like he can easily wield any type of weapon. Right now he's wearing an old pair of shades that are now almost impossible to get ahold of without ordering them abroad; an old aviator's jacket that's darker than the original outfit and covered in small stains of dried blood; and boots that were once in favour to southern hunters. His weapon of choice, unlike the Peacekeepers around him, is his old baseball bat that's darkened over the years with bits of dried blood with rusted nails sticking out of the tip of the bat.

It's not his outfit, he knows, that makes him threatening. It's the well-practiced look in his eyes that tells anyone that crosses him that they better be all-prayed up because they're about to meet their maker.

"Did anyone catch sight of the perpetrator?" He asks, forcing patients into his voice. After a heavy silence that nearly sends him snarling into the closes soldier, a Peacekeeper steps forward: a boy who looks no older than 23 with pierced cartilages (Jones never understood the attraction to that), nearly black hair, and dark eyes. He holds his helmet under his arms and his build is unquestionably that of a 2 citizen and his scarring tells Jones that he was a part of one of the more dangerous neighbourhoods of the District.

"I saw the perpetrator," the boy announces, his voice calm.

"Well?" Jones drawls smoothly, trying not to let his anger show. It was this flaw, among many others, that finally led to the weaker Jones' downfall. "What did you see?"

"Not long before their deaths," he motions towards the two Peacekeepers and the boy, "there was a disturbance. A young girl was seen too close to the perimeter, stealing the weapon of Peacekeeper Shepherd, and running through the city. Myself and Peacekeeper Tailor," he inclines his head towards one of the Peacekeepers on the ground, "joined Shepherd in trying to catch her. We nearly cornered her when she 'escaped' and ran back to where we first saw her. We then met up with who we thought was our trainee. By then, we thought that the girl was well and dead, shot with a bullet from Shepherd's own weapon."

"Evidently not," Jones drawls, watching the man's Adam's apple bob nervously. "Do you happen to know what the girl looked like?"

The young man nodded, "Curly, red hair; dark, one piece uniform; green/gold eyes; a slight build; and the physique of someone slight from District 2."

"Do you have an age range?"

"Mid-to-older teens," the Peacekeeper answers. It's when the boy says this that Jones hears a small choking noise, almost like something of disbelief. He turns to the soldier from which the noise emanated from. The soldier's face is covered and he recognizes the soldier as one of his own personal guards. He can't remember the guard's name, only that this one's male.

"Well," he announces with his attention on his soldier. "Is there anything you'd like to share?"

The boy begins to speak but Jones cuts him off, "remove your helmet," he orders irritably, the urge to take it and throw it at one of the windows overwhelming. "I can't speak to anyone with those damned things on."

The soldiers obeys and removes his helmet, revealing the not-so-lined face of a young man, around the age of 20 with curly, dark blonde hair, and wide eyes that seem to fit the soldier's earlier description. This is one of Jones' newer guards that showed much promise in the training gyms.

"Do you know who this is?" Jones asks the boy, watching his eyes for any signs of deceit or treachery.

"Unfortunately, I think I might," is the formal answer as the lad stands up even straighter. "She's a ghost or, at least, that's what my family's given up to saying."

"What does that mean?" Jones demands, giving the boy his full attention. "Your commanding officer just asked you a question. _Answer_."

"I had two other siblings," the soldier begins, "A younger brother and sister. My younger brother fought in the Hunger Games four years earlier, dying disgracefully in the Games. My younger sister, after this, became unhinged. The two were always close. Not long before my sister was to be married, she ran away. Neither my parents nor anyone asked knew where she could have gone. We gave her up for dead long ago."

"And you think this is her?" Jones asks. The Peacekeeper shrugs, as though the answer means nothing.

"It could be, sir. From what I remember of my sister, she always had the oddest ability to get out of trouble, no matter what it was."

"Do you have any idea where she could have gone?"

"Until just now I thought she was dead. Hoped for that, actually," The guard answers, his eyes showing an obvious dislike at the thought of his sister being alive. Jones notices this and raises an eyebrow,

"No love lost between siblings?"

"Both of my siblings were a disgrace to their family and their District," the guard snaps. He pauses, realizing that he just raised his voice to a senior officer and then takes a deep breath. His eyes shift from blazing to calm in a matter of seconds. "At least my brother no longer has the chance to embarrass us. My sister would have been better off dead."

"What is your sister's name?" Jones asks, already prepared to order the soldiers to start the search. He has a pretty good idea where she's going and if that… _human_ makes it across the border into that idiot Canada's country…

Well, then the girl on fire's charade will seem like nothing compared to this.

"Her name was Psyche Valentina Hunter."

"'Valentina'?" Jones repeats, frowning at the familiar word. His mind wanders back to years before with red hearts and ribbons thrown around everywhere and faulty declarations of love treated like nothing more than the empty words they were. The guard shrugs.

"My family's always been a little old-fashioned," he explains. "When my sister was born, my mother claimed she was born on some important day on the Ancients' calendar. I never really cared for it, but my mother did. So, my sister was name for the _saint_ on whose day she was born on."

Jones nods and studies the boy in front of him, "What's your name, boy?"

The guard steps forward, places his fist over his heart, and then drops it to his side. "Octavius, sir," he announces proudly. "Octavius Hunter, borne of the noble Hunters in District 2."

Jones nods, knowing exactly who he was talking about. The 'noble Hunters', as the boy boasts, have always been known for bearing some of the fiercest Peacekeepers and Tributes.

Considering the carnage that the 15 year old girl left in her wake, then there's little doubt that she can be anything else than a high-born citizen from the Warrior District.

"Everyone gear up," he orders, watching as the soldiers around him stiffen in anticipation for their orders. These dogs have smelled blood, he knows, and it will no doubt be a bloody hunt. "Search the woods, the surrounding area, and as deep into the woods as possible; keep all eyes out, and do not let her near the Wall. I want this girl back alive. As well as the prisoner she better be carrying."

God help her if she isn't.

* * *

><p>After America falls asleep-with the sun still high in the sky-Psyche retreats into the forest, grabbing any type of berry or nut that's edible and shoving them into her bag. She had thrown the Peacekeepers uniform out a ways back, hoping to never see it again and has removed the top layer of her District 13 uniform and has given it to America to sleep on.<p>

Her thermal shirt worked well in keeping her warm but she knew that they would have to get moving really soon or risk being caught. And, considering what she just went through to get him to begin with, that is not an option.

Swearing some more, she reaches the mouth of the cave, throws her bag down and reaches for anything that belongs to her or anything that they need. There's no way that she can leave anything behind even if she doesn't need it, but still. Better safe than sorry, right?

At her side, America shifts and mutters something too low for her to hear, though she catches the faintest echo of some old nursery rhyme,

"_Hickory Dickory Dock…"_

She rolls her eyes, not having the slightest idea what he's singing, and starts throwing everything into her bag. Once everything is secure, she laces it over her shoulder and reaches for America. Gently removing the large overcoat, she places it back on her frame and then reaches for the sleeping nation at her feet.

It's a light struggle, carrying America. Not nearly as bad as she had been prepared and prepared herself for. Given the description, she expected him to be this hulking mass that would make her brother dwarf in size. Yet, here she stands with a nation that probably weighs less than her. She wants to say she felt bad, but she's actually relieved: carrying him like this-with one of his arms thrown on her shoulders and his body practically dangling on her back-is far easier than dragging a giant around on the ground. Plus, it also leaves less of a trail for anyone to follow.

She pushes him further up her back with a small huff, trying to ignore the feeling of his raised skin that she can somehow feel from his leaf-thin shirt. She glances over her shoulder as his head lolls against hers, his long nest of light hair getting in her face and making her wrinkle her nose.

Wow, that smells terrible. Maybe, on their next short break, she can bury his head into some sweet smelling plant or something.

With that idea, she tromps forward, glancing down at her compass-gloves to ensure that she's going in the right direction. On her back, America is still humming.

…

The sun is slowly descending on the horizon, illuminating the world in splashes of red and orange and yellow. Psyche stops for another quick moment, trying to catch her breath. Thankfully, America is just slightly aware of his surroundings and can now stand/sway on his own two feet. Though she has no idea how long that will last, she's still grateful for the added weight being removed from her back, even if just for a moment.

While she's rifling through the dense underbrush for some kind of food, America's eyes face the sky, his pale face glowing against the bright light. After another minute of bending and trying to find something, she straightens and glances at the nation, her hand on her lower back, beneath her dagger scabbards. There's a painful throbbing in that area but, as she's had worse, she doesn't mention this.

"America," when she calls his name, he slowly lowers his head and glances at her, his head tilted like a curious animal's. "Care to help me pillage for food?"

He studies her with too wide eyes and then glances back upwards, leaving Psyche glaring at him. A part of her envies him: when she was younger, she would always do the same thing-look towards the sky, at everything new to a young girl; now everything's just too old and she's sick of it.

With a roll of her eyes, she crouches down again, looking through the bushes and anything close enough. The next time she glances up to make sure that the day-dreaming nation hasn't wandered off; she sees that he has indeed wandered off. It's in her best interest not to yell his name into the empty air, but she's sorely tempted to because, if she lost him, she might as well throw herself off the edge of a cliff or something. There was literally nowhere to go if she fails this mission.

She suddenly hears something heavy drop at her side and she jumps, reaching instinctively for her bow and arrow. She nocks the arrow and points it in the direction the sound came from. There, on the ground behind where she had just been rummaging for food, sits an innocent looking nation with some kind of food in his mouth. At his feet are a few other odd pieces of food. He motions towards her and the food, a clear invitation for her to join him.

She eyes him warily, silently asking him where he got the food. He swallows loudly, the action sounding pained, and points to the tree above him. When she glances up, she sees a tree full of the same odd food that's sitting at the nation's feet.

She slowly lowers her weapon, replacing her arrow with the others, and walks towards America, reaching for the strange food. She raises the oddity to her mouth and takes a wary bite: her mouth explodes in a sensation of flavour and colour and she spits the food back out on reflex. The… _thing_ is far too sweet yet it's still amazing. She rolls the sweet food around in her hand, studying the smooth round texture curiously. She only looks up when she hears a strange choking noise.

Just as she was watching him earlier, now America's studying her actions, a faint smile on one side of his lips, the juices from the food on the other. Psyche raises an eyebrow,

"Something funny?"

"You act like you've never had an apple before," he tells her, still looking like he was biting back a smile. She frowns and studies the 'apple' in her hand.

"Is that what this is?"

His face freezes, allowing for some juice to drip out of his mouth, "you've never had an apple before?"

"I'm guessing that's what this is then."

"Like, seriously? _Never_?"

She glares at his astonished face and very slowly takes another bite, this time expecting the explosion of taste. Though the bite is less of an ordeal, the more she eats of the odd fruit, the stranger it settles on her stomach. She doesn't even finish the apple before she hands it over to America, who's on his third apple.

"How did you know those were there?" She asks curiously. Up until then, she just assumed that he was unaccustomed to any type of 'roughing it up' like most Capitol Elites and would just sit there and let her do all the work. Though she isn't often proved wrong, this is one of those rare times when, not only has she indeed been proven wrong, but she also doesn't mind it one bit.

America shrugs, "I grew up around here," he tells her, his voice quiet. "I remember how to get a lot of things." He shoots her another faint smile, "did you really think that a nation wouldn't know how to get food in his own country?"

"I didn't know what to expect of a personified nation," she tells him honestly, watching as he downs more apples, including hers. "We're not exactly told about you in schools."

Here, he frowns, "You're not really told about anything, are you?" He asks sounding irritable. Her eyes are the drawn to the scars and bruises that colour all visible skin. She shakes her head.

"We're taught what we need to know, America," she answers automatically. She shrugs, "we're taught about the Dark Days and the first Revolution, not much after that."

"Are you taught about the Revolutionary War? The Civil War? Either World Wars? Russia? Vietnam? Korea? Iraq? Anything?"

Psyche stares at him blankly, never having heard of any of those. At the look of confusion in her eyes, his darken, reminding her of when he was chained up. Was that really only a few days ago?

The dark look in his eyes slowly dims and he shakes his head, his smile returning. It was odd, the number of times he smiled. What did he even have to smile about?

"Alfred," he tells her suddenly, surprising her enough to stop staring curiously at the leftover apples. How long, she wonders, would those last in her bag?

"What?"

"My name is Alfred. At least," he pauses, frowning slightly with his eyes miles away. "At least, that's what my friend always called me."

"Two days isn't enough to make a friend," she huffs with a slight laugh, contemplating the life of an apple. "It's barely enough time to do anything concerning any type of relationship."

America looks surprised, "yes it is. It's more than enough time to make friends."

"Not the type of friends I make."

"Do you make friendships or alliances?"

"Is there a difference?"

"Of course there is!" He actually looks surprised by her answer. She shrugs,

"Maybe with you making friends but, with me and everyone else, two days isn't enough time to do anything."

"Damn," he mutters, blowing out a surprised whistle. "They done fucked ya'll up, didn't they?"

"I literally didn't get a word of that. No, wait: I got the 'fucked up' part but that's about it."

"Well, I can see at least hell hasn't sapped you of your sense of humor," he comments dryly, raising an amused eyebrow. Psyche rolls her eyes for what feels like the millionth time.

"This is hardly 'hell,' as you call it; it could be worse."

"How so?"

"We could have voted for this," though her voice is light, there's an underlying tightness in her words that Amer-_Alfred _doesn't miss.

Alfred looks away, "we-ahh-we kind of did."

"… _What_?"

Alfred winces, "a long time ago, there was this one candidate that seemed to have everything together, everything was perfect. And, with someone-" the dark look that passes in his eyes at the word 'someone' shows that he knows _who_, he's just not feeling ready to divulge that information-"whispering in his ear, it was a slow descent to hell from there."

"But… why? Wouldn't the people know-"

"By then, it was too late," Alfred answers solemnly, finally drawing his eyes to hers. "By the time anyone realized something was wrong, the 'Dark Days', as you call them, were already upon us and they were already sending kids into the Games not long after."

"Did you feel that?" she asks, wondering if she really wanted to know the answer to that. The scars on his body showed that some of the wounds were not inflected by his captors, at least. "The Dark Days? When they sent those first kids in?"

"I did," he mutters darkly, reaching for a leaf at his knee and slowly tearing it apart. "I didn't know their names or what they even looked like, but I remember every wound, every death in raw detail. It was a little like Pearl Harbor or 9/11," Alfred shudders at the memories. Psyche tilts her head curiously to the side, her eyes curious.

"What?"

Alfred nearly chokes on his own spit at her words, "Y-you've never heard of Pearl Harbor? Or 9/11?" His voice is astonished and there's an underlying inflection of something darker. Psyche studies the nation curiously.

"Are those important things?"

He just stares at her flatly, his eyes cold. Psyche wonders if he's going to start throwing things in a minute when he just huffs and shakes his head, a disgusted look on his face.

"When we win this rebellion, everything's going to change," he promises his eyes serious and, though she'd never admit it to him, deadly.

She snorts, "yeah, _if_ we win this rebellion."

"No, _when_ we win this: the hero always wins, in the end. Plus, Mattie, Iggy, and Francis'll no doubt help."

"Who?"

"My family," Alfred answers as though it should be obvious. When he sees that she has no idea what he's talking about, he rolls his eyes but answers, "Mattie-Canada, this lovely little country you want to ditch me in; Iggy-England who lives across the sea and raised me; and Francis, _France_ who also raised me." Alfred shrugs, "if there's one thing my family knows how to do it's how to fuck up but also how to help. They'll help us," he finishes as confidently as he can while covered in leaves and blood.

She rolls her eyes at him, tempted to pop his little bubble of optimism when he interrupts her,

"Do you know any songs?"

"Any… what?"

"Songs. Music. Words, anything."

"We're supposed to be hiding," Psyche reminds him dryly as he reaches for another leaf to destroy. She wonders if this is a nervous habit of his or if he's just looking for something to do and destroying innocent leaves just happens to be somewhere on the list.

Alfred rolls his eyes, "Yes, but one song can't hurt anyone. In fact, history has shown that music can bolster the defeated mind."

"My mind isn't _defeated_, Alfred, it's _realistic_. There's a great difference."

"Whatever. Are there any songs in your county?"

"… County? What's a-oh. _Oh_. C-you mean District? District, right?"

Alfred rolls his eyes; his leaf destroyed and he reaches for another leaf. "Wherever it is that you live. Is there some folk songs or stories or something?"

"Yeah. Every District has pretty much their own cultures at this point and with that comes their own stories and music."

"Well, can you sing something that's traditional to your… _District_?"

Psyche ponders that thought, trying to think of an appropriate song. A lot of the things they sang back at 2 were songs that they could sing while fighting or marching, songs that were created to keep the heart beating, the blood pumping through their veins, and their energy up. A lot of their music had to have legitimate instruments to go along with them.

Finally, a song comes to mind. It was something her mother used to sing to her when she was younger, a song that everyone in 2 seemed to know from the masons, to the soldiers, to the orphans.

She opens her mouth and begins singing,

"_We lay my love and I beneath the weeping willow._

_But now alone I lie and weep beside the tree._

_Singing "Oh willow waly" by the tree that weeps with me._

_Singing "Oh willow waly" till my lover return to me. _

_We lay my love and I beneath the weeping willow._

_A broken heart have I. Oh willow I die, oh willow I die."_

The last notes fall into the air, echoing in the slowly growing darkness.

"What the hell was that?"

Psyche blinks and glances over at Alfred in surprise. He's looking at her, his face paler than normal and his blue eyes wide, looking horrified. She scowls at the nation, trying and failing not to get offended.

"It was a lullaby."

"That's not a lullaby!" Alfred argues as he straightens himself up. "That's like something fucking Shakespeare would write!"

"… Who?"

"Not the point," Alfred tells her, waving her words away and leaning forward, his chins resting on his hands. How did the emaciated limbs manage to hold any weight on them? "My point is that we need a song to lift out spirits. Something that'll keep us going!"

"Or we can sit pensively with our thoughts and emotions and reflect on our actions."

"I have a great song!" Alfred says, completely ignoring her statement. Psyche rolls her eyes and studies the childlike being for a moment longer. Alfred clears his throat-the noise pained-and somehow manages to croak out.

"_Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light_

_What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?_

_Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,_

_O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?_

_And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,_

_Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there._

_Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave_

_O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"_

Psyche simply stares at him whilst rubbing her ears, her face no doubt twisted in a pained mask. He smirks and then catches sight of her face; his expression melts into a pout and he flicks a nearby twig at her. She easily bats the offending wood away.

"Doesn't that just lift your spirit?" Alfred asks, rising to his feet with that stupid smile still on his face. She rolls her eyes and also rises to her feet, reaches for her bags, and grabs the strap, tossing the piece of material over her shoulder.

"We need to-"

Her words are interrupted by a faint buzzing sound, something that sounds so familiar that she finds herself darting towards the nation and tackling the emaciated being, getting him as low to the ground as possible.

He lands to the ground with an '_oomph_' and a pained whine and she has to bite bag the urge to apologize for hurting him: niceties like that were dangerous in times like this.

With as few movements as possible, she removes her black uniform and throws it over Alfred in an attempt to cover him and, with another glance to the sky, begins dragging the nation to a spot with a denser tree cover, curling them both into as small a ball as possible.

Sure enough a Carrier appears, hovering above the area, no doubt looking for the only things they need-her and her traveling buddy.

She makes sure that the two are well hidden and buries her face in the nearest bush, not caring that it was one of those damned bushes with the knife-like leaves and that her face is probably scratched up now. Just add it to the list of injuries.

The two stay like that for what feels like years, staying out of sight and trying not to make a single move. Alfred, surprisingly, is excellent at staying hidden and doesn't even flinch when the Carrier drops low enough that they're nearly blown away by the Carrier's propellers.

Finally, the Carrier turn around, not having found what it's looking for. She waits until she can no longer hear the droning of the machine and jumps to her feet, feeling the leaves dig into her skin and the light mood from earlier completely dissipated.

She grabs her uniform and throws it over her shoulder, crouches down beside Alfred, and reaches for his hand, pulling him to his feet. He 'straightens' out-though he doesn't really: his body is still curved at the waist, protecting himself.

"We have to go," she states, aware that it's the obvious statement but not caring. When he doesn't move, she reaches out and grabs his shoulder, shaking him. "_America_, didn't you hear me? We have to go: if the Carrier is this far out then the Peacekeepers won't be that far behind. We're almost at the border, okay? Just another day, maybe a full night as well, but we're almost there."

He stares blankly at the ground, his arms wrapped protectively around waist. Patients slowly leaving her, she shakes him harder, aware that she's probably rattling him slightly but not caring. "America, come on, we need to go!"

Finally, slowly, he looks up, his eyes glassy and a terrifyingly blank expression in the blue depths. Before she can say anything, he drops to his knees, his eyes wide and scared. He curls around himself even more, trying and failing to stop the tremors that wrack his body.

As she watches in wide-eyed shock, the tremors turn into full out shaking, his entire body seizing with whimpers escaping through his lips. Before her eyes, a fresh wound appears, this one like a nasty cut at his throat and another one like a puncture wound near the same spot.

Psyche falls to her knees, quickly reaching for her bag and the cloth thing within it, and pulls it out, quickly tearing a new piece to cover the wounds. America, of course, isn't making things easier by flailing his bony limbs around, nearly knocking her in the face more than once and successfully knocking her in the face three times.

Losing her temper, she tackles the nation to the ground, straddles his waist, and reaches for her dagger hidden in her shoes. This, understandably, sets him off even more and he begins screaming-terrible, choked yelling that sounds like his throat is raw.

She slams the hilt of her dagger into his temple and watches as his body goes limp. She then replaces the weapon back into her shoe and wraps the material around his neck, clotting the bleeding and protecting it from any infection. She then places the cloth-thing back into her bag, throws the strap over her shoulder, pulls the uniform coat back on, and lifts America onto her back.

With a quick glance at her gloves, she darts into the forest, trying her very hardest to stay one step ahead of the Peacekeepers.

**Welp, chapter 8 man! What do you think so far? It's kind of hard to write Allen-VP Jones-but it's also kind of fun, I'm not going to lie. Anyone get the songs? The 'Lullaby' is actually a song really spooky sounding song called 'O Willow Waly.' It is indeed spooky. Anyways, just leave a comment, question, or concern, and I'll do my best to answer! Peace out! Have a good (is that even possible?) Monday!**


	9. The Wall

**Err... Heey! Sorry I wasn't here Friday to all my fabulous readers! I went to St. Augustine with some friends and fell in love with everything old and beautiful. Here is chapter 9. Please enjoy! **

She's panicking now as she runs deeper into the wilds, her attempts to keep the Peacekeepers as far away as possible slowly failing like everything else she's ever done.

Just that night, she had seen another Carrier hover above the forest, trying to find some signs of human life. Psyche had practically thrown herself to the ground, America suspiciously quiet the entire time.

She knew that a few more scratches from being tossed to the ground would hardly hurt him, but she still felt bad at seeing a small bead of blood trail down his wrist from him landing on a fallen stick.

Even now, nearly an entire day later, Psyche finds herself practically panting. America's hanging off of her back; she hasn't had much food; she hasn't had much sleep; and she wonders if this is how she dies.

_You can't die here_, her mind whispers forcefully as she stumbles over another large branch at her feet. _Not here and not now; get him over the border, into safety, and then you can die. Not a moment sooner, though._

She hefts America higher up on her back and continues, her head spinning and her stomach practically roaring. She wants to stop here and pick some berries or nuts; she wants to stop here and get some sleep; she wants to stop and check on the nation because she can feel beads of his blood drying on her shirt.

She wants to, but she knows she can't.

She glances down at her glove, watching as the compass that's now her best friend, and sees that she's so close to the border that she should be seeing the Stone Wall any minute now.

This leaves her with another problem that she'll have to remedy soon: getting the two over the wall without anyone knowing and getting over the wall in general.

America, whimpering against her back, is hardly ready to start scaling walls and she knows that she can't climb a wall with seventy pounds of dead weight on her back. She's good, but she's not that good.

She's getting so close now that she can see the trees start to thin, as though the path she's on has been walked thousands of times over the years. Who knows, maybe with the Ancients, it had been.

Her breath fogs out in front of her, clear against the very thin rays of sunlight that slip through the canopy above, and her heart's beating faster than it has in years.

She's nearly at the edge of the trees when she hears someone shouting behind her and the sound of running through woods. Psyche knows what that means, but continues on: she _can't_ stop now.

Behind her, the echo of a bullet fills the air, causing her foggy breath to hitch and for her to move even faster to the point where she's now almost flat out running. America jerks on her back and she can feel his breath against her neck, the warmth seeming so out of place in this icy world.

She can hear shouting now, quiet enough that it's probably a ways off, but loud enough that she can hear it.

How did they get out here so fast?

The answer is obvious: the Carriers. These Peacekeepers were dropped into the dense forests by the Carriers and sent into the woods to search for her. The fact that they were so close, too, tells her that they have mutts with them, creatures with an incredible sense of smell and hearing.

She gasps and is now flat out running as fast as she can, her lungs and eyes burning and tears threatening to fall from her eyes. This is too damned cold!

Finally, the trees thin until there's nary a branch left in sight, leaving her staring at an incredible, seven foot tall wall that's been worn down by years of erosion and ice. The thing, in its younger days, was probably beautiful. But, staring at her now is a wall that looks depressed and decrepit.

She huffs out a life and drops the nation to the ground. He yelps and lands on his back. Psyche crouches down next to him, her heart pounding, and places a hand on his shoulder.

"America," she begins, shaking him. He doesn't answer. She shakes him harder. "America, we're here, get up!" He remains where he is, still whimpering and flinching, opening some of the wounds at his back. The cold, no doubt, also plays a role in this-drying the skin out and making it crack. Her nails now dig into his skin as the Peacekeepers sound closer and closer. "Dammit, America, we're here but I'm gonna need you to wake up, okay? I c-I can't climb that wall with you on my back, I'm gonna need you to carry your own weight."

He doesn't answer, just remains curled up in his ball. Her eyes suddenly burn and she has the urge to scream at the world that this isn't fair, she can't do this, and why now?

She swallows the cry as she realizes that, whether she can or not, she has to carry him because he sure isn't going to carry himself.

She scrambles to her bag and rifles through it, looking for the cloth thing and pulling a long enough bit of material away from it. She then ties the piece around his thin, skeletal wrists and ties that tightly together. She then throws everything unceremoniously into her bag and pulls the nation back onto her back, his tied wrist going around her shoulders as she darts towards the wall.

There should be guards here, she knows. Given everything that this government seems to go through to keep the outside world a secret, there should definitely be some kind of guards to protect the wall.

On her back, America suddenly stiffens and whimpers, the sound seeming to send electrical currents through her veins. It's the Quarter Quell, she knows this for sure, and she wonders what just happened. One of his forearms, she now notices, is covered in blood with a cut practically covering the limb. It's a bloody thing and she knows that she'll be covered in blood after this, but she continues on, trying to ignore the very blatant cut to his person.

She doesn't pause when she reaches the wall. Rather, she reaches for the first handhold she can find and begins to pull herself up.

She remembers some of her lessons about erosion, and how she had been bored out of her mind about learning something that had nothing to do with fighting. Now, she's grateful for the erosion, grateful that time had eaten away at the hard surface, leaving cracks and lumps large enough for her to grasp.

As she climbs higher, the voices get closer, and the nation on her back begins to feel heavier. His hands had slipped and were now digging into her throat, choking her. She pauses for a second and moves to change his position because she's starting to see little black spots dance in her vision and she's almost positive that that is a very bad thing to start seeing.

She moves his tied wrist to her shoulders, wincing as his weight begins to bore down on her. Behind them, the rustling of leaves is getting louder and louder and she wonders where the Peacekeepers are. Shouldn't they be here, trying to stop her? Are they watching the Games? Are they somewhere else?

She's almost at the top when she hears the tell-tale sound of a bullet being shot out of a gun. She's now putting everything she has into climbing this damned wall, not caring that she's tearing her fingernails and scratching every visible bit of skin. As far as she's concerned, any wound inflected on her by the wall is far preferred than the wounds inflected on her by the Capitol. The wall wounds will heal; the Capitol wounds may not even allow her to survive.

She's nearly at the top when she hears the yelling of soldiers and the baying of mutts as both almost break through the clearing of trees. She manages to grab the edge of the wall, pull her and her companion up, and swing her legs up after them, having successfully just scaled the dividing line between Canada and Panem.

The yelling and baying is getting louder and she removes America's hands from around her throat and pushes him in front of her, near the side of Canada. She glances over her shoulders, sees a black shadow appear from behind the bushes, and doesn't even pause in her actions when she pushes the nation over the wall, watching him drop seven feet to the ground below.

She almost winces when he hits the ground but decides that he's survived worse and that a little fall like that will hardly hurt him. Well, okay, it _will _hurt him but it won't kill him.

She prepares herself to jump, judging the momentum that will careen her forward and the way she needs to land on her feet when the sound of a bullet whistles past her and the sound of another bullet being fired announces itself. Not a minute passes when she feels fire burn up her side, telling her that she has just been shot and she needs to leave.

The bullet's momentum, however, continues forward, causing Psyche to fall dangerously unprepared-like. She gasps when she hits the ground, landing on her foot wrong and sending another burst of fire through her body. The pain, though, is fading and her heart and lungs and veins are all practically pulsating and she wonders how long she has on this momentary adrenaline rush.

She removes the cloth thing from her bag, unfolds it, places it on the ground, and slides America onto the top. She then bends herself at the waist, ignoring the slowly growing spot of blood, and starts dragging the nation as fast as she can, deeper into the Wilds and unknowns of 'Canada' and hoping beyond a hope that she can outrun the people chasing her.

* * *

><p>Matthew frowns as an unusual yet familiar tingle travels up his body. Around him, his people are at work, talking and laughing, some of them sharing stories about their families, others discussing their weekend plans. Everything is normal; everything is as it should be.<p>

What was with the strange tingling?

He tries to place the feeling: he knows that when another country passes over his borders, he can tell. Whenever another country is within a certain number of kilometers, it's this same feeling, yet different. He _knows_ this, he just can't place it. It's like when he's looking for a certain word and he forgets it, yet it's there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach.

He sighs and leans forward, rubbing his forehead and glancing over at his polar bear, Kumajirou, whose sleeping atop of a desk beneath his office window. The rise and fall of the bear's chest is comforting and Matthew loathes waking him up.

He's just about to call someone in when Kuma stirs from his sleep, looking up and blinking, his head spinning from one end of the room to the other.

"Are you alright, Kuma?" Matthew asks politely, frowning at the bear. Usually nothing can wake him up from his mid-afternoon nap, choosing to lie beneath the sunlight filtering in through the window. Kuma glances at him for a second, rises from his perch, and clambers down, waddling towards Matthew.

Surprised, the nation picks the bear up when he reaches him and rests him on his lap. "What is it, Kuma?"

Kuma turns and stares up at Matthew. He then rises onto his back legs and places his front paws on Matthew's chest, as though trying to get his attention. His head is tilted curiously to the side.

"Who are you?" Kuma asks, causing Matthew to slump into his chair.

He sighs, "I'm _Canada_."

The bear's head it still to the side, "America?"

Matthew's heart stills in his chest for a second before resuming at its normal pace. He clears his throat and looks away from the bear, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.

He misses his brother. And, though they won't ever admit to it, Matthew knows that papa France and England miss him as well. It's the way their eyes linger on his empty seat that no one ever seems able to fill during meetings; it's the way they always look over their shoulders, expecting to see the Hero waltz up with some smarmy comment. Sometimes when they look at him, Matthew wonders if they see him or Alfred.

"No, Kuma," Matthew begins quietly, feeling his eyes water but fighting the tears back. Alfred was always an annoying and irritating brother, but he never forgot Matthew. He was his brother though and through, no matter what. "I'm _Canada_."

Kuma sneezes irritably, glaring slightly at Matthew through dark eyes. His front paws are still resting against his chest and Matthew wants to push him off.

"America," the bear insists, looking around the room as though the nation would materialize out of nothing. Matthew reaches forward and brushes his fingers against the polar bear's soft skin.

"No, _Canada_."

The bear sneezes again and removes its paws, turns tale and leaps back onto the ground, waddling around the room as though searching for a means to escape. Matthew frowns at his odd behaviour. Suddenly, there's a knocking at the door and in walks one of Matthew's friends/co-workers: Mr. Tremblay is a greying, middle aged man that seems to think that Matthew needs to go out and live more. The man's already tried to set him up three times now.

"Hello Mr. Tremblay," Matthew announces somewhat irritably. Realizing the slip, and not wanting the kindly old man to think it's directed at him, he softens his words and smiles. "How are you?"

"I'm all well and good," the older man answers while smiling as he always does. He glances at Kuma crawling around on the floor and then back up at Matthew, his lips curling into a smile. "And you?"

He shrugs, "pretty much the same. To be honest, there isn't much left to be done," with this, he motions towards his desk, the surface neat and smooth, clear of anything that could get in his way. He's almost done with his work and he's more than happy to go home. Considering that the usually working man is up and talking, Matthew has a feeling that he's finished with his work as well and is about to make his long trek home.

Matthew stands up and walks around his desk, his hand outstretched to the human and his smile more relaxed, "I see you'll be heading home soon?"

"Yeah," the man answers, smiling slightly. "Need to leave now if I want to get back before dark. Why I let my wife talk me into moving to the middle of nowhere is beyond me but, hey, the family's happy."

"I'm happy for you," Matthew responds with a faint smile of his own, trying to shove back memories of his own family. Or, to be more specific, his twin brother.

Mr. Tremblay beams at the nation, his brown eyes alight and he studies the man before him. "Are you alright?"

Matthew, taken aback, smiles, "I'm a little out of sorts," he admits before quickly adding, "But I'm well. I'm just… thinking about my brother."

"When was the last time you saw him, if you don't mind my asking?"

Before that damned wall went up.

"I haven't seen him in years," Matthew responds with a slightly more forced smiled this time around. He clears his throat. "Haven't heard from him, either."

Mr. Tremblay shudders, "I've got three siblings myself," he admits with a fond though exasperated smile. "Little hellions, we all were, but I couldn't imagine not speaking to them for years. Did you two have a fight?"

Matthew shrugs, "More like a political dispute, if that makes sense?"

"It does," Mr. Tremblay answers with a sympathetic grin which quickly falls into a frown. "It's a sad thing when family allows themselves to be torn apart by something like politics."

You have no idea.

Matthew clears his throat, that odd tingling falling into the recesses of his mind. Maybe papa France was nearby or Prussia had escaped his brother's watch and was here to create mischief. Either way, it was nothing that should hold his attention for too long.

He claps the man on the shoulder and smiles, earning a laugh from the man in question, "trying to get rid of me now, are you?"

"Of course not!" Matthew replies, leaning against the edge of his desk. "Why are earth would I want to do that?"

"To avoid another meaningless set-up?" The man asks pointedly enough to make Matthew wince and then smile sheepishly. The man chuckles and reaches for the nation's hand, pumps it twice, and then turns to leave with a cheerful wave over his shoulder.

Matthew watches his citizen leave with a smile which quickly drops as he remembers Kuma's words. He glances over his shoulder at the polar bear in question and watches as the beast raises himself on his hind legs before collapsing in a circle in front of the sun now shining through his window. Hating to interrupt his naps but curious despite himself, Matthew makes his way towards the center of the room and crouches down beside the bear.

Kuma forces one eye open and studies the nation blearily, his silence seeming to demand that Matthew make his point and quickly so that he can return to his sleep. Matthew obliges.

"Earlier… What were you talking about? With America?"

"Who?" The beast asks, his eye slowly drooping. Matthew lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head before rising, returning to his seat and letting his bear fall back asleep.

He places his elbows on his desk and laces his fingers, staring pensively out the window. He couldn't remember another time when the two brothers hadn't spoken in such a long time. Even during the American Civil War, the two had somehow found the time to talk. Hell, during the War of 1812, the two had found time to talk! Granted, half of the time they'd been insulting each other and the other half of the time they spent trying to talk the other one out of returning to the status of a colony/staying free.

_Alfred and his freedom_, Matthew thinks with a small smile on his lips. Then of course there were both of the World Wars plus some of the other wars that Alfred had dragged him into.

There were also times when the brother made an unstoppable force. Matthew can still remember his boys, the 'Black Devils', as they were called, in WWII. A force of both American and Canadian soldiers, the group was very special indeed. Matthew can still remember the beaming look on Alfred's face after the war when he greeted the unit. He could see the pride in his brother's eyes.

Matthew swears under his breath, glancing at the closed door to make sure that no one heard him, and leans forward, resting his forehead in his laced fingers. He still can't believe that it's been almost 75 years since he'd last seen his brother.

Satellite images hadn't picked up anything out of place and as the years went on and he had gotten more worried about his brother, he had begun trying to break the codes and to access information within the country. Though he knew that if his brother ever found out then that's practically a call to war, Matthew kept trying harder and harder to get information from the bordering country. Any time someone actually managed to break the code, there was still nothing out of place. Everything checked out cleanly and there was nothing to raise an eyebrow.

Until he had tried to get in again, only to find that someone had changed the code.

So, satellites were out; hacking into their database was out; which left sending in a spy, something he loathed to do. He sent men in and he's never heard back from most of them. He didn't know if they'd been captured and killed or if they had just decided to settle down and started a family there. The only man who still kept in touch with him was one of his men named Plutarch but, even then, he hasn't heard from the man in years.

"I hope you know we miss you, Alfred," he mutters aloud, wondering if he's finally gone 'round the bend. The World meetings were never the same without his obnoxious, always moving brother who never forgot him.

* * *

><p>The two-or <em>Psyche<em>, to be more specific-have been running for hours. She doesn't know how many, just that the moon was once up, but now is down. Her ankle, which she now knows is only sprained for the moment, is tied up tightly with a large stick that she had found and parts of the cloth that she had taken from the old capitol building. Her waist, which, of course, had taken the brunt of the bullet, is wrapped tightly in the same cloth, the red coloring thankfully hiding some of the blood dripping out of the wound. In itself, the wound isn't that bad, save for the blood; it's merely a flesh wound-the bullet had skimmed the flesh.

That, of course, isn't stopping it from stinging like fuck and making her wish that she could have turned around and shot the bastard. She doesn't know how far into the new country that they are, she only knows that it is, of course, freezing cold and she has officially given her 13 coat to the nation who now lays curled up into a tight ball, shivering.

Having stopped for a moment-she refuses to give them any more time to stop- she glances around, trying to find food of some kind-berries or nuts or meat or something.

Her stomach is now passed the point where it's growling and more towards the point where the pain is a very pointed void. They're going to have to stop soon and get some sleep. And food. She'd dribbled lake water down his throat earlier with the hope that if it was poisonous or filthy or whatever he wouldn't be _that_ affected by the water. She, on the other hand, will probably feel the effects of poison very soon if the lake is indeed filled with parasites.

As it stands, her stomach is poignantly empty, her ankle and waist are burning, her throat is dry, her back aches, her face and any visible skin feels raw, her head's spinning and she's almost positive that that's a very bad sign, and she has no idea how much further the two need to travel before they find Canada-or _Mattie_, whichever.

She glances over her shoulder and winces when she sees bits of blood on the flora around them. So, to add to the list of things that have already gone wrong, some of America's wounds have now reopened and Psyche, who can't afford to stop for very long in case the Peacekeepers are right behind them, now has untold amounts of dried blood on her suit.

Awesome. Perfect. Fucking _brilliant_.

Psyche doubles over, wincing slightly when the action sends another wave of pain through her side. She rests her hands on her knees and takes in another deep breath feeling like her lungs will explode any minute. At her feet, America groans. She glances towards the nation, licks her dry lips, and wipes the back of her hand across her lips. Literally a second later, she tastes blood on her lips and she knows that she just cracked her very chapped lips.

And, because she can't catch a break, her mind wanders to that story that she'd been told back at the Capitol by the Peacekeepers. About the man not eating anything in three days and then attacking the Peacekeeper that tried getting him food. She glances over at the nation and then wrinkles her nose. She can probably be near starving and he still wouldn't look appetizing.

Glancing at America and then back up at the sky nervously, she tries calculating the amount of time she has before she'll have to start running again. There isn't a single droning noise, nothing that can give a Carrier away if they are anywhere close by. Granted, she doubted that they'd enter into another country's territory. If they did, they'd run the risk of revealing their nefarious schemes to the rest of the world. She doesn't know them, but she doesn't think that the greater world would like the idea of sending their children into arenas to die. But, then again she's never been outside of the Walls until now and who knows? Maybe the outside world is a worse place than Panem.

She shutters away from that thought, hoping against all hope that the world outside isn't worse than Panem.

On the ground America groans, dragging Psyche's eyes away from the surrounding area back towards her escapee; he's still curled up in a ball with cuts and bruises and bones all showing, but he made a noise, right? That's got to be better than nothing.

Psyche sighs and ambles over to him, trying to ignore the way her legs are shaking and reaches out to feel his forehead-again, ignoring the fact that her hands are shaking.

His head feels warm and-

Her entire body freezes when she hears the familiar noise of Carrier blades, though they sound different here for some reason. She drops to the ground and drags America with her, hiding them both in some very heavy foliage.

When she allows herself to look up, she sees an oddly shaped Carrier, something she's never seen before. She frowns at the odd contraption, wondering if she should fall deeper into the underbrush or step out and study the thing more.

When America groans, her mind snaps to an automatic-_of course you don't leave the fucking safety of the bushes! Who cares if the Carrier looks different? It's a Capitol Carrier! If they catch you, everything will be for naught!_

She winces and rubs her forehead, trying to ignore the way its spinning. When the Carrier's droning finally disappears and the world around her is silent, she finally allows herself to crawl out of her hiding spot, dragging America along with her, and slowly begins the routine of throwing her bag over her shoulder and then throwing the nation of her shoulder. When she finally stands up as straight as she can, her mind spins and she has to close her eyes to stop herself from falling. Only after a minute passes and the risk of falling decreases does she allow her eyes to squint open.

Head still buzzing, she glances down at her glove and starts running after checking the thing three times to make sure that she's not going in the wrong direction.

* * *

><p>Vice President Jones glares daggers at the wall in front of him. The behemoth structure was supposed to ensure that no one could breach it. In this case, it failed.<p>

Stretching across the 'unconquered' border, the seven-foot wall is no more than a shadow compared to its former glory. The walls are eroded and beaten down by the elements and what once stood as a massive, beautiful pale structure of Panem superiority now stands in defeat.

The walls are ineffective and blistered after years facing every harsh element that could be thrown at it and, right in the center of the expanse, rests the symbol of the Rebellion

A bright red, glowing Mockingjay insignia.

Many of the Peacekeepers that were supposed to be guarding the structure are dead, their throats cut or their heads bashed in from behind. There was no military order to the attack, nothing that could give it away as an organized fight. Just like those damned uprisings in every fucking District save for a few.

The most humiliating thing, though, is that where he lost most of the Peacekeepers that guarded this wall, the casualties from the rebels is far less. There's not a single rebel body, save for one or two due to the guards no doubt getting lucky.

So, not only has he lost his prisoner, he's also lost a good number of Peacekeepers that they will no doubt need in the coming future.

He glares hatefully at the symbol, wanting to burn the entire expanse down and start again from the ground up; he wants to destroy their world-every. Single. Rebels' world-until there is nothing left but ashes. The nation thought he had it bad before? It will be nothing-_nothing _compared to what will come if they don't get that asshole back as soon as possible.

Much like Crane, V.P. Jones knows that something went wrong in his calculations somewhere. Unlike Crane, though, there is nothing Snow can do to him. Jones knows everything there is to know about Snow's less-than-ideal rise to power and knows that a single word from him could end-not only his career-but his life.

Staring at the symbol, feeling his heart constrict with fury, all Jones can think about as he stares at the symbol that threatens to destroy everything he's ever worked for is a motto that hasn't been used in years.

_Das dicke Ende kommt noch_

The Worst is yet to come.

**Liked that ending? I don't know why, but I'm not really satisfied with this chapter. Maybe because the beginning of it just feels rushed. I've had this scene mapped out in my head forever and trying to put it into words seemed to kind of ruin it. Anyways, What do ya'll think? I really like Matthew and Kuma in this. I hope I got them right. Also, the part with the Black Devils is a real thing. It's really cool. During WWII, American and Canadian troops trained and fought together. The name was coined when they'd do missions they would cover their faces with black paint and overwhelm German troops and then disappear into the night. The bit at the end was their motto, of sorts. It's all really interesting. Anyways, comments and greetings are welcome and have a great Monday!**


	10. The Stranger

**Hey all! I hope ya'll are having a great Friday or a great day in general :D First, I would like to thank all my readers and comment-ers and PM-ers for being so awesome! And then I would also like to thank the people who are reading this for the first time or they've read it before and like it, thank you for your time! I hope you enjoy this chapter :D**

Psyche's exhaustion has now peaked.

Every noise in the Wilds is the crack of a gun; every scurrying animal is the sound of Peacekeepers toying with them; and every moan from America-no matter how quiet-is practically a banshee's shriek of where they are.

Every time she tries to walk or run a certain speed, her head starts spinning and then her body feels weightless and, hell, even the added seventy pounds of the nation on her back seems like nothing. Psyche doesn't have any kind exaggerated opinion of her own strength so she's almost completely positive that this entire reaction is due to the fact that she hasn't had any real food in days. The human body wasn't meant to live on only nuts and berries with little water.

She stumbles forward, her stomach feeling like a black hole that will swallow her and anybody up without remorse. She can now understand some of the lesser Districts and why they do some of the things they do. She can also understand the appeal of volunteering as Tribute. Though the endgame sucks, they still get to eat like Capitol elites for a good three to four days before the Games. And to eat like royalty, isn't that one of life's greatest joys?

From somewhere around them there's the sound of a twig snapping, sending her heart into overdrive and her mind and imagination into terrifying possibilities. She also swears that she can hear the sound of whispering. At the point, she isn't sure if everything is in her imagination or if she's finally lost her mind. In spite of everything she's grown up knowing about a weak minded person, she can't help but think that a reprieve from this entire world would be totally worth any kind of punishment. Who knows, maybe Peacekeeper Fisher had a point about the Capitol wanting to kill the people they fear because they seem themselves. If she had known that losing her mind would leave her feeling so light than who knows? Maybe she'd of tried losing it a long time ago.

On her back America thrashes, sending a bony elbow right between her shoulder blades and making her Psyche wince. Add to the list of weird things about the nation-besides the fact the he is a dead nation personified-is that he has strangely powerful strength. Even at a whopping seventy pounds and maybe eighty soaking wet, the nation had the strength to pull his bony ass up a very tall tree to forge for food. It's weird; he doesn't look that impressive at all. In fact, she's taken to literally shoving some food in his mouth and water down his throat.

Gasping for air, she finally allows herself to stop for another second, dropping the nation on the ground and earning an '_oomph_' from him. She doesn't turn to see if she's opened any more of his wounds because she knows that she has. An hour or so after the two had crossed the Wall into Canada, America had started thrashing wildly and making it very difficult for him to stay on the cloth she was dragging him on. More than once he'd somehow manage to roll himself off of the makeshift clinic bed, right into a tree stump or a bush. After about the fourth time of him doing this she'd finally lost her patience and pushed him off of the makeshift bed, ripped a nice-sized piece of cloth and grabbed a thick branch she had found and wrapped her ankle like she'd always been taught and placed her daggers inside her boots to reduce the amount of weight in her back. She then tested the limb for a second and, finding it well enough, placed the nation back on her back and started walking.

Looking at him now, Psyche can see bruises and dry blood on any visible bit of skin as well as something that looks almost like burns across the edges of his neck. She grimaces and limps forward, wondering what she should do about that. She crouches down and studies the pale, drawn face as well as the nasty burn that had made its way across the very edges of his jaw and sunken cheeks. He looks like a colorful skeleton, what with all the red and brown and blue and black.

She probably more resembles a banshee-pale skin, wild hair, wild eyes, bloody everything, and dark clothes. She wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if somebody mistook her for the mystical devil and tried to kill her. As long as they left the nation alone, she wasn't even sure if she'd try fighting them too hard.

As per usual, the nation started muttering under his breath, repeating the same phrase from earlier. She'd heard him mutter,

"My people… so many… no. No. _NO!_"

And from there, the thrashing had begun anew.

Now he's calmer but he's still muttering in his sleep, saying the same things and Psyche, for the millionth time, wonders what's going on back in the Districts. Was the Quarter Quell over? Who had won? What was going on? Were the girl on fire and baker boy ali-

"Are you alright?" A strangely accented voice asks suddenly, sending the warrior's hand towards her back and grabbing an arrow while her bow readied for the weapon. Not a second has passed before the girl spins on her heels, ignoring the fire that rips through her ankle and side, and points the notched weapon at the voice, the world spinning in and out of focus.

The boy before her stands with a strangely patterned red and black, long sleeved shirt on, a heavy jacket that looks very warm, strange strings coming out of his ears, and large combat boots. One hand is being run through his ash colored hair while the other one stays at his side, grasping an-

Axe.

The boy holds an axe, much like the Tributes at District 7, and much like the famed Johanna Mason. She tightens her grip on her weapon, preparing to release the arrow.

The boy, seeming shocked at her weapon, immediately drops his and raises both hands over his head. Psyche doesn't have the slightest idea why the idiot has just dropped a weapon as vital as an axe and is all for taking advantage of his idiocy. Ignoring his numerous attempts at a calming, 'Hey, it's alright, see? No weapon. Calm down,' she prepares herself to release the arrow. She would have, too, if the nation behind her hadn't let out a low groan.

She quickly glances at the nation over her shoulder before looking straight at the boy, her weapon shaking in her hands, and the world spinning around her.

He has an axe, she tells herself.

_Remember why you're here_, her mind argues.

He _has_ an axe.

_You're in neutral territory_.

He has an _axe_.

_You can't shoot someone in Canada_, her mind tries again and in a very distant part of her mind she knows the voice is correct, though she doesn't know what to make of it. Her head is spinning and she can feel the blood seeping out of her bullet wound and she feels so very light and tired and she wants to take a nap and she's hungry and-

"Canada," she speaks suddenly, surprised by the strength in her voice. "Where's Canada?"

The boy also looks surprised, his hands still above his head. He glances around before returning his eyes to her. "Yo-you're here. Where are you-why are you so surprised?"

His strange accent does nothing to calm her nerves. For all she knows, this is be a ploy by the Capitol to get her to lower her weapon. The object in question, held tightly in her shaking hand, doesn't lower.

She ignores him. "Where's Canada," she demands again, knowing her voice is starting to shake and the dark dots from earlier are returning with a vengeance. It takes all of her energy for her to keep them out of her main point of focus and for her to glare at the unsettling boy in front of her. "Where is he? Where is Canada? _Where is he?"_

"_He_?" the boy demands, his own voice calm and quiet. "You're in Canada; there is no _he_. This is a country."

The tremors in her hand now are getting worse and she knows that the boy in front of her can see the shaking. Everything finally seems to be catching up with her now and she wants nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep but she knows that she can't because if she does than America would be captured and she'd be sent to the Capitol and her family would never know she's alive and she'd be tortured and again and again and again and-

"Where is Canada?" she demands, her voice rising to a shout, almost a shriek and she wonders if this boy will even know, will even try and help the strange banshee girl in front of him. The boy still looks confused and his hands are still over his head. He doesn't say anything. "Canada" she repeats again and again, trying to get through into his ignorant head. "Canada. Canada! _Canada!"_

The boy still has no idea whose she's talking about and she wants to throw something at him, she wants to lose the arrow and watch it fly like a bird through the sky, wants to watch the pretty black shape '_whoosh_' through the air like something on a mission, wants to feel warmth and fire and wants to look after her nation and her family and her people and Pearl. She wants to help Pearl but everything seems to be falling apart and she couldn't even help Cassio and Felix and-

"_Where is he?"_ she shrieks until her throat feels raw and it feels good to finally release this scream that's been lodged in her throat since her brother was killed in the Hunger Games and since she lost her best friend and since she was born and she was always told to be a good girl; to always keep her voice lowered and her eyes shaded and her emotions in check and everything under control.

She's lost her control; she's lost everything of value and there was nothing left and everything was chaos and chaos surrounded her and she knew that somehow, someone else important was going to die because a rebellion was blazing and that's what happened to people: they die. They were born and then they die. People were born to die-

"I have no idea who you're talking about," the boy retorts, his voice raised but only slightly. The tremors that wrack through her hands are now moving to her arms and her body and everything that makes her _her_ and she wonders if she was going to combust. Erupt into a volley of flames.

The girl on fire.

She almost laughs at that, almost allows herself that little freedom but she fights it back because there is no such thing as freedom. Freedom is life's great lie and anyone who thinks differently doesn't know what life is and-

_Another name_, her mind whispers. _Another name. Another name. Another name._

The words repeat themselves again and again in her head and she finds her mind scrambling for something, some name that she's heard before but long forgotten because it didn't help her with anything.

Was Cassio the name? Pearl? Snow? Coin? Alfred? Alfred wasn't the name, though it was close; it was linked. Something about that last name made things a little clearer and she knew that the name she was looking for somehow involved 'Alfred', though she didn't know what or where or why.

_Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. AlfredAlfredAlfred-_

"_Iggy wouldn't let anyone win and Mattie is stubborn. Good ole' Ludwig is too smart to fade and Yao and Ivan and Kiku wouldn't give in to anything."_

The conversation from so long ago with the odd names and random facts enters her mind and she wonders if any of those names make sense to the odd boy.

"Iggy," she tries while her voice and hands shake. The boy still looks confused. Dark spots dance in her vision. "Iggy. Mattie. L-Ludwig. Y-Yao. Ivan. Kiku."

The boy looks even more confused than anything and his hands are still above his head and her mind is growing heavy and there's a ringing in her ears but she repeats the names again and again and again until her mind stops on the name 'Mattie.'

"Mattie," she tries her volume growing louder and louder, "Mattie. Mattie. Canada. Mattie. _Where is Canada?_"

"You're in it!" The boy shouts, the loud noise making her tense and tighten her grip on her bow. Something in her mind tells her that this isn't a good idea because if she does this then she increases her chances of missing if she's shooting and she doesn't want to miss because this is her greatest strength and she doesn't want to let her District down. "Alright? There is no 'he' when referring to Canada. This is a country, a sovereign state, a-a, _merde_, a _country_! You're in Canada!"

"C-Can…" her voice trails off and finally the black dots in her vision win, overtaking her entire sight and making her see only a fuzzy darkness. Her body feels heavy and she feels herself fall.

_This is what failure feels like_, she thinks before her own mind goes fuzzy and black.

…

Jonathon Tremblay is a good person. Or, at least, he likes to think of himself that way: he has some of the best grades in his class; he volunteers whenever he's able to; he's never made fun of anyone in his class; he helps his family out when money gets tight; and he has his own job with college funds saved up.

Yes, Jonathon Tremblay is a smart boy who has his entire life planned out and he's only seventeen. His parents always tell him that he has the chance to go far, maybe study abroad. Hell, his siblings would joke, maybe he'd be the first citizen in Canada to be invited to a college in the States.

Considering that no one's been over the borders of the States in years, it seems like nothing more than a cruel joke to the boy, to tell him he could travel to the country south of them. Like everyone was making fun of him, in a way.

Anyways, Jonathon is a good boy and a respectful child. When his father called him and asked him to cut some firewood down for the fireplace, Jonathon didn't waste a minute, just grabbed his DMP-a Digital Music Player, something much like those old-fashioned 'IPods'-and grabbed the axe in the shed, making for the woods. He'd been listening to a newer band, someone that his entire class seemed to like, when he'd stumbled upon a strange girl with bright red hair, doubled over in front of a boy not much older-looking than her, panting.

She had a strange sack of God knows what on her back and he remembers his parents always telling him to do everything in his power to help those that look like they need it. The boy on the ground-who looked like he'd lost numerous fights-was mumbling something too low for him to hear and neither the boy nor the girl looked in the best of shape. So, as his parents had always taught him, he called out, asking if they needed help.

Then the girl had leveled what looked like a bow and arrow at him. If that wasn't terrifying enough, she had started rambling about Canada and 'where is he' and a whole mess of names that he didn't understand with a crazy look in her eyes. He supposed he owed the kid on the ground for distracting her for that second. He also supposed that he should send a 'thank you' to Big Man Upstairs for her passing out.

Which, of course, is how he now finds himself stuck between a rock and a hard place: on one hand, he doesn't know if he should call the police or someone. On the other hand, that would mean he would have to leave these two passed out in the cold.

Because of course he would forget his phone on a day like this. Just because he's a good kid doesn't mean that he's lucky.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, glancing from one of the kids to the other, neither looking older than him.

He finally decides that he's going to try and carry the boy back to his house, leave his coat atop the girl, and come back for her later. As the boy seems in worse shape, it only makes sense to get him as much help as possible.

He slowly edges towards the pair, worried that one of them will jump back up and level another old-fashioned weapon at him. Thankfully, though, neither wake up and Jonathon steps closer to the blonde boy and crouches down at his side, trying to get his injuries in order. He wrinkles his nose and decides to start breathing through his mouth when he catches a whiff of the guy.

Jonathon feels bile rise in his throat the longer he studies the boy: his face is sickly and thin, he's covered in bruises, blood, and strange, varying red, white, and blue pieces of cloth, his wrist are pretty much blistered and bleeding, and he's covered _in blood_. All-in-all, he looks all-around like shit.

He removes the black jacket/overcoat-thing that the boy's using as a blanket and throws it over the now shivering girl before he pulls him into his arms so that he's carrying the guy bridal-style. It's awkward, though, given that the guy is well over six feet and it's surprisingly easy to carry him. Jonathon decides that the guy's weight is another huge thing to add to the list.

Jonathon grudgingly walks away from the girl, making sure to look around so he can place every single landmark so he knows exactly where he's leaving her, and begins the walk back to his home, definitely worried now at the guy's light weight. When he reaches his home-a nice, two story building made of red bricks and wood-he catches sight of his father's truck, breathing out a sigh of relief at the beat-up piece of shit. He can't remember a time when he was happier to see the rolling piece of metal.

He stops in front of the door, readies himself for the explosion and reaches for the doorknob, somehow managing to turn the piece with the six-foot-something guy in his arms. He pushes the door open, hearing his father laughing at something in the kitchen-he's probably on the phone with Jonathon's aunt who's visiting a friend in France-and makes his way in, calling for his dad in the process. He regrets that he's being rude and he knows he'll get an earful about it later, but he thinks that finding two passed out kids on their property is a little more important than his aunt's new beau.

A second later his father's head pops out of the kitchen entrance, a surprised look on his face. The surprise turns to shock and then worry when he catches sight of the visibly injured guy in his arms who has now started muttering something too low for him to hear again.

"I've got to go, Julia," his father says before hanging up the phone and rushing towards Jonathon, immediately taking the boy out of his arms and carrying him to the couch.

"Call 9-1-1," his father orders dropping the boy on the couch and taking stock of the boy's injuries for himself.

"Pop," he starts already making his way to the door, "Pop, I have to go back."

"I admire your will to get more firewood, but this is important," his father states, never looking up from his work and slowly untying the pieces of cloth-bandages.

With a sense of urgency that seems fitting given the circumstances, Jonathon blurts out, "I have to go back and get the girl."

For the second time that night, his father looks up, shocked. He studies Jonathon before waving his hands, silently urging him on. Jonathon barely has a chance to say goodbye before he's out the door and trying to maneuver his way through the thick forest that he had just come through. After what feels like forever, Jonathon finally finds where he left the girl and picks her up just as easily as he done with the boy, worried, yet again, at the weight. He doesn't know what to do with the bow she'd dropped, but decides to leave it there and pointedly tried not to touch the bag full of arrows on her back. He doesn't even notice the black bag at his feet when he all but runs home, trying his best not to fall or throw the already injured girl out of his arms. Minutes pass by before he reaches his house and this time he sees his mother's car in the driveway, next to his father's.

When he enters the house, he sees his father bent over the boy on the couch and staring at some of the worse looking wounds while he hears his mother talking to someone on the phone, no doubt the police. When he enters the house, letting the door fall back with a loud bang, the silence is almost deafening. His father looks up from his ministration, sees the girl, and orders Jonathon to take her to Eliza's-Jonathon's eldest sister-room.

His mother looks at him as he passes the entrance of the kitchen, her eyes steely and the phone pressed firmly to her hear. She catches sight of the girl and her eyes soften, looking just as worried as his father had looked a minute ago.

He easily climbs the steps and turns left, his feet automatically knowing exactly where to go even if his mind is kilometers away from the current situation, still confused and wondering,

"Where the hell did these people even come from?"

….

It's the next morning and Matthew stares blankly at the steam that's pooling his shower, his eyes watering slightly as the mist finds its way into his eyes.

He swears and rubs them with the heels of his hands and runs a hand through his wet hair before turning the shower off.

The night before had been a nightmare, from trying to fall asleep to actually falling asleep and the dreams that'd ensued from there.

Part of him wants to blame Kuma for the reemergence of the dreams. Dreams he hasn't had in years about Alfred and him. Dreams from when they were both little colonies and then when they were fighting against each other and then again when they were fighting with each other. Things he had done years ago, both to and with his brother, reemerge; some of the dreams making him feel guilty.

He sighs and turns off the showerhead, steps out of the shower and reaches for his towel.

A part of him dreads the coming day because he knows that he'll have to continue acting as though nothing's wrong. And, to be perfectly honest, he can't believe that everything's starting to come back up as its doing. Everything was in the past, yes? Then why was it so hard for him to forget about the past and continue on with his life?

He shakes his head, guilt and exhaustion making way for frustration: he never wanted any of this to happen. Have Alfred and him had their differences in the past? Of course. What siblings didn't? It's been over 75 years. Shouldn't things be better by now?

He steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and spots Kuma hanging off the edge of a chair, his two front paws hanging lazily in front of him.

"You're going to fall," Matthew tells him quietly, the reprimand hidden in his words. Kuma tilts his head to the side as though trying to get a read on the nation before asking plainly,

"Who are you?"

"I'm Canada," the nation sighs explosively, reaching for his clothes for the day. He decides on a bright blue shirt and professional slacks, though he knows that most of his coworkers rarely wear those. He doesn't mind. Even though most of the other nations ignore him at the World Meetings, his own people will never do that.

_Alfred never did that_, his mind whispers.

Alfred isn't here.

…

Work that day was a quiet affair. For one thing, much to everyone's surprise, Mr. Tremblay showed up over an hour late to work, looking exhausted. More than one person, Matthew included, offered the kindly old man some coffee. Each time he would just smile wanly and thank them, but decline the drink.

When lunch rolled around, instead of sitting with his co-workers like usual, Mr. Tremblay went off into his office and made some calls, something that was so out of character for the man that Matthew was starting to get worried.

When the end of the day comes a-callin' and no one had seen either hide or hair of Mr. Tremblay, Matthew told Kuma to stay put and slowly makes his way to the man's office, wondering how he should proceed. Though it isn't England or Russia he was about to talk to, Matthew still feels an odd tingle of nervousness in the pit of his stomach. Or is it the back of his mind? There is some odd sensation that refuses to leave him.

Matthews knocks on the door, frowning at the sensation and trying to place it, when Mr. Tremblay opens the door, looking surprised.

"Matthew?" He asks, seemingly shocked. "Lad, are you alright? Is everything okay?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing!" Matthew exclaims, surprised himself. Mr. Tremblay frowns up at him for a moment before glancing around the hallway, as though ensuring that no one else was there. When he doesn't see anyone, he glances back up at Matthew, opening the door wider and inviting him in.

Matthew enters the office and glances around the room. Though this isn't the first time, Matthew still loves the array of varying objects that make up the room, all personal touches from his family: on the wall there are pictures of his children, of him and his wife, drawings, hockey trophies, a small pillowcase that he says his wife had made when they first met.

There is this sort of organized chaos that makes the room feel warm and welcome. Matthew glances back at Mr. Tremblay whose eyes are glazed and his lips are moving, as though he's trying to figure something out. Matthew politely clears his throat and waits patiently, reminding the man that he's there, but he's willing to wait for him to speak.

Mr. Tremblay snaps out of his gaze and looks upset, as though something devastating happened to his family. Matthew straightens up,

"Is everything okay?" He asks quietly, nervous that something could make the usually chipper man seem so dark when just yesterday he'd been laughing along with everyone. He watches the human's face, looking for any expression that can give a hint to what's going on with the kindly man.

The kindly man in question clears his throat before looking back at Matthew, a strangely knowing look in his eyes. Matthew swallows hard.

"Last night I asked my youngest to cut some firewood," the man begins, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "When I got home, he was out in the woods, presumably getting wood from off of our property. When he got home he…"

Mr. Tremblay's voice fades slowly, his eyes no longer on the nation but staring at a picture of his family for a Christmas card. Matthew remembers that one: one was sent to him that year.

Dread fills his stomach and he hopes-_prays_ that nothing had happened to that clever boy.

Mr. Tremblay clears his throat and returns his eyes to Matthew, "When he got home he had a boy in his arms," the old man finishes tiredly, his eyes sad. Matthew frowns at Mr. Tremblay.

"W-what do you mean, you found a boy? Had there been an accident? Is the boy alright?"

"That's just it," Mr. Tremblay continues, his sad gaze steady on the country before him. "There was no accident reported nearby, nothing that could shed any light on what this young man and his companion were doing so close to our property and in such a bad shape."

"'Companion'?" Matthew asks while frowning. "Was there someone with him?"

Mr. Tremblay nods and continues. "Yes. There was a young girl that my son went back for. He came back and placed her on his older sister's bed. My wife called the police and they arrived within ten minutes with an ambulance. The two were taken to Civic Campus and placed in the children's wing. Those calls I was taking earlier? They were from the hospital, updating me on the kids' conditions."

Matthew's head spins, trying to come up with a reason why this seems like such a big deal to his mind. He glances back at the man's calm, knowing gaze and clears his own throat.

"I-I'm really glad that you trusted me, Mr. Tremblay, but why did you?"

Mr. Tremblay studies him a moment longer and clears his throat, his eyes never leaving Matthew's, "because, for one thing he reminded me a lot like you, even beaten up as badly as he was. For another thing, the entire time I was looking after him and waiting for that ambulance, he kept saying your name."

**Sooo, there it is! What do you think? I like that little cliffhanger there but I think it got a little choppy in the middle. What do you think? Also, given how she's tired, exhausted, injured, and hungry, Psyche's weird little mind rants and rants in general are the result of everything that's going down. I really hope that part I got right and it seems to work. Anyways, I hope everyone has a great day and enjoys their lives! Happy, happy days to you!**

**P.S. Can anyone guess what the burns are or what's going on in the main Hunger Games world?**


	11. Hey Brother

**Hey Everyone! Happy Friday! I hope ya'll have had an awesome week and have a great next week. If you haven't, then the week is over and then dawns a whole new world for you! Here's chapter 11 and I really hope that ya'll enjoy this :D The brothers meet. Yeah! Also, for those of you interested in a history Hetalia fic, there's this really awesome one called, 'Never Your Hero' by General Kitty Girl. I've been reading it for the past week and I'm completely hooked. Give it a try if you like History, especially the WW-era. Tis a grand adventure, if ever there was. Anyways, please enjoy!**

**P.S. (this is almost over, I swear), For anyone who was curious, I the burn marks on Alfred's body, in my head, came from *spoiler alert* when the Capitol bombed District 12. **

"_He kept saying your name_."

The words echo again and again in Matthew's mind as he rushes to the hospital, Kuma hidden in a bag thrown precariously over his shoulder. For all any one that sees him knows, he's just a student running late to one of his classes who just heard about his brother being admitted to the hospital.

_It's not possible_, his mind tells him coolly while his heart continues battering against his chest. _How many Matthew's are there in Canada? How many blonde haired, blue eyed guys are there in Canada?_

Matthew doesn't know nor does he care at the moment. He remembers the day before when he'd felt that odd tingle in the back of his mind; his senses telling him that someone had just crossed into his land. He'd written it off as nothing more than a family visit or a practical joke. There was no way for his mind to know that it had been his brother that had crossed his borders.

His brother that he hasn't seen in years.

He pushes those thoughts aside and power jogs into the hospital, stopping and watching the people around him, _his_ people, move from one place to the other, none of them knowing that they may just be holding a nation that hasn't been seen in years.

He stops at the front desk and glances at the friendly woman with dark hair balanced in a bun atop her head and dark eyes now studying him inquisitively. He clears his throat, hoping that his heart will soon leave his throat and return to its original origin inside his chest.

"I'm here to see my brother," he tells her, something he hasn't said in what feels like forever. "My brother and sister," he continues, wanting to have the girl's side of the story as well. They came in together. Chances are that someone will mistake them as related or something so it's better to have a story prepared already. "They came in late yesterday. I'm Matthew," he adds as a bit of an afterthought.

The woman-Anshi, as her nametag reads-raises an eyebrow and starts typing away on her computer while glancing from the flustered nation to the computer screen.

"They were brought in last night and you're getting here now?" The woman asks and though her tone is light, Matthew can here an accusation in it. He clears his throat.

"I-I just flew in from Vancouver," he answers, hoping that she'll mistake his hesitation for exhaustion. The slightly suspicious look vanishes and is replaced with a more sympathetic one,

"I have family who live there," she tells him conversationally, "I don't get to see them often but when I do it's the best."

"I'll bet," Matthew answers politely, watching her as she continues to type something on her computer. After a minute passes, half of which Matthew is arguing with himself over if pointedly clearing his throat is too rude, the woman finally looks up,

"Can you give us some information on the two patients?" She asks, sounding almost sheepish. "I apologize, it's just that-"

"You want to protect your patients," he interrupts, smiling in a way that means that he isn't being rude, he completely understands where she's coming from. When she smiles and nods, he clears his throat,

"The boy has blonde hair and blue eyes, and his name is Alfred F. Jones," his feels a lump rise in his throat but he clear it away. He continues, remembering what Mr. Tremblay told him about the girl, "she-the girl-has red hair and light brown eyes and her name is-"

Before he can finish the thought, there's a loud noise at the end of the hall, almost a shout that draws the attention of the nurses, doctors, and patients alike, something that makes the receptionist in front of him wince. He frowns questioningly at her.

"Your brother's been out of sorts," the woman explains as she quickly types something on the computer in front of her. Matthew's heartbeat is practically running a 5K now but he ignores it, staring intensely at the woman.

"Has he been like that all night?" He asks when she calls out for a nurse. A man steps away from a crowd of what Matthew assumes is all nurses and makes his way towards them, his hazel eyes grim. Anshi smiles sympathetically at Matthew,

"He's better than last night," she tells him as the male nurse stops in front of them. "Last night we could barely get him to keep still. He nearly hurt three of our nurses before we managed to get him under control!"

"Is he alright?" Matthew asks-_demands_ as the woman turns to converse with the male nurse.

"This is Mr. Matthew Jones," Anshi tells the man who's bobbing his head with everything she says. If not for the seriousness of the moment, Matthew would smile at the very obvious display of a crush. But, given the circumstances, he wants the two to hurry up so that he can see his brother. "His brother and sister are the two patients that were admitted last night. I suggest you take him to see his brother first. A familiar face might calm him down." Anshi turns back to Matthew as waves her hand at the nurse, "this is Nurse Michael Kelly," she tells him. "He'll show you where to go."

"Thank you," Matthew breathes to the woman. She smiles and nods, returning to whatever's on her computer and Nurse Kelly continues on his way, stopping once to ensure that Matthew's following him. Matthew quickly tails him, making sure that the man doesn't leave his sight for too long.

"You're his brother?" Nurse Kelly asks conversationally as they dodge people. Matthew clears his throat and nods, glancing over at the tall man who's only a little shorter than him.

"Yes, my twin brother, to be exact," he corrects as he nearly collides with a doctor. He calls an apology over his shoulder as Nurse Kelly continues,

"Have you talked to him recently?"

"Not in years," Matthew tells him. "I haven't seen him in so long."

"Then how did you know he was here?"

"A co-worker of mine told me," he answers, deciding that honesty is the best policy right now. "I haven't seen him in years and then, all of a sudden…"

He trails off, not having the slightest idea how to continue. Nurse Kelly takes his silence as a direction to speak.

"Have you talked to your younger sister lately? The one that came in with your brother?"

No, but I will.

"Her and Alfred were always close," Matthew tells his as the two stop in front of a door. He hesitates and glances at the male nurse whose studying him curiously. "When he left, she went with him."

"This is his room," Nurse Kelly tells him as Matthew leans in closer, trying to catch a single sound from behind the door.

"Is he in one by himself?" Matthew asks his tone sharp. Nurse Kelly nods,

"When we brought them in, his injuries were more severe, so we thought to separate the two."

"How did they react?"

"The girl is still sleeping and Mr. Jones is awake, as you can probably guess."

"Ms. Anshi said that he almost injured a couple of nurses?" Matthew asks, part of him wondering why he's stalling and the other part grateful for that. If Alfred's wounds are _bad_ then what has been happening in the country south of them?

Nurse Kelly nods, "He was… stronger than we expected," The nurse tells Matthew, somewhat grudgingly. "We had to bind him." If Matthew had any doubts before that this is his brother than they have certainly just been squelched. Matthew nods and Nurse Kelly opens the door, allowing the nation to enter the room first.

Preparing himself, Matthew steps into the room. Of course, the first thing he sees is the hospital bed right near the window where sunlight is filtering in through the blinds. He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the sudden wetness behind his eyes and glances around the room. In the corner, flashes of colours catch his eyes and he turns to look. He sees a small pile of what look like red, white, and blue pieces of cloth. He frowns and turns to look at Nurse Kelly, who's watching his every move.

"What are those?" He asks, motioning towards the pieces of cloth. Nurse Kelly clears his throat,

"Those were found wrapped around the man's injuries," he explains as the two men step deeper into the room. The door falls shut behind them and Matthew hears the tell-tale beeping of the heart monitor. "We think they were last minute bandages that the girl found somewhere. We don't know what the patterns on the cloth are, though."

Matthew frowns and steps towards the corner, saving his little conversation with his brother for when the Nurse decides to leave. He crouches down in the corner and reaches for one of the pieces with dull flashes of blue and white. He frowns and stretches the piece out between his fingers. He sees a white star and a blue background.

"It's a flag," he mutters aloud, not knowing if Nurse Kelly can hear him and honestly not caring. The girl used the American flag to bind her nation's wounds. He can't tell if that's a cruel sense of irony or patriotic. Judging by the blood stains on some of the pieces, though, he's going to go more with that cruel sense of irony thing.

"A flag, sir?" Nurse Kelly asks as he moves towards the crouched nation. He lowers himself and reaches for another cloth piece. "A flag for what?"

"An American flag," Matthew informs him watching as the man twirls the piece around his fingers. He glances back at the small pile and frowns, "American flags are usually bigger," he mutters, confused. "There are certainly more pieces the flag than this."

"We found some in the girl's bag," Nurse Kelly tells him, gently placing the flag back into the pile. "Not torn pieces, mind you, but more. We didn't know what to make of it."

"What do you mean?" Matthew questions, turning his full attention to the male nurse.

The ma raises an eyebrow, "We learn very little about America in school," he tells the nation. "Save for a few key facts and considering that they took their flag down years ago from the Embassy, we weren't really sure what an American flag looked like. One of our older doctors said that it could've been an American flag but we didn't know what else to go by."

"Is that so?" Canada mutters, turning his attention back to the pile. Behind him, his brother groans. Matthew's head snaps to stare at his brother and he quickly rises to his feet and stumbles towards him as Alfred begins moaning and jerking in his sleep around. Behind him, Nurse Kelly stands stiffly.

"I'm not sure if this is-"

"Can I have a moment with my brother," Matthew asks-_demands_ as his brother release another pained groan. Nurse Kelly hesitates. Finally, after studying Matthew a second longer, he nods and makes his way towards the door.

He stops and turns to face Matthew, "If you need anything-"

"I'll call for you," Matthew answers, knowing he won't but wanting to get the nurse out so he can talk to his brother. Behind him, definitely escalating the mood, Alfred's heart monitor picks up as the nation continues to thrash, his wrist bound to the bed, inhibiting his movements. He gives another shout as Nurse Kelly finally leaves the room and the door falls shut.

At his side in the bag hanging against his hip, Kuma pops his head out and surveys the room. His eyes land on Alfred and he begins squirming,

"Kuma," Matthew tells him sternly, "not now."

"Who are you?" The bear asks as he turns to look at Matthew. The nation sighs and removes his bag, placing it on the floor and allowing for the bear to climb out. Kuma then begins clambering around the room. Matthew returns to face his brother.

Thrashing and groaning in his sleep, Matthew places both of his hands on either side of his shoulders, trying to ignore how frail the limbs feel beneath his hands. He swallows thickly as he catches sight of all the scars and bruises. His gaunt face is slick with sweat and his eyes are glued shut.

"Alfred," he calls, shaking his brother gently, "Come on, man. Wake up! It's me, Matthew!"

For a second, the thrashing stops. Then, Alfred's eyes shoot open. The once vibrant blue irises are now darkened with pain as they take in the room around him before landing on Matthew. For his part, Matthew feels stinging behind his own eyes, his hands still locked firmly on Alfred's shoulders. He expects a smart-ass comment or some hero crack about how the heroes don't need help. What he doesn't expect is for his brother's eyes to darken further in pain, almost torture and for his brows to furrow.

"No," he mutters, recoiling from Matthew. "No. _No!_ They weren't supposed to catch us!"

"Alfred!" Matthew calls, perplexed and slightly frightened by the wild look in his eyes. "Alfred, what on earth are you talking about? Who wasn't supposed to catch you?"

Alfred doesn't answer, just continues to stare at Matthew with that same tortured look. His thrashing begins anew and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"They weren't supposed to catch us," he mutters again and again. "They weren't supposed to catch us…"

"Alfred," Matthew shouts, keeping his hands firmly on his brother's shoulders. Though his wrists are bound, Matthew his little doubt that even in this emaciated state, his brother can still cause quite a bit of damage. "Alfred, calm down! Who wasn't supposed to catch-"

"YOU AREN'T REAL!" His brother cries hoarsely, his voice breaking and his eyes flying open, the blue irises misty with tears and his face contorted. His heart monitor is now practically screaming as his brother continues thrashing about.

Matthew forces him down, using his strength as best he can. Beneath him, Alfred is still muttering something too low for him to hear.

"Alfred," Matthew orders, keeping his voice stern, "Alfred look at me." When the nation doesn't, Matthew repeats the order, the same way he did years when he was giving orders to hundreds of soldiers. His voice is unyielding, strong and he'll be damned if his brother doesn't listen. "Alfred," he repeats, this time shaking his shoulder to emphasize his point. "_Look. At. Me."_

When Alfred finally obliges-his eyes filled with pain and a blue fire that relieves Matthew to no end-Matthew continues with the same, steady voice he's used to many times in the past, "It's me," he tells his brother, slowly releasing his grip on Alfred's shoulder and sliding his hands so that they now cup his brother's thin face. His eyes are burning but Alfred has stopped thrashing and his blue gaze is fixed-albeit sadly-on him. He lowers his head so that his forehead is against Alfred's and continues, his eyes not leaving his brother's. "I swear to you, I swear to God, I swear on whatever it is you want me to swear on: _It. Is. Me_."

Alfred swallows thickly and then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them back up again, the pain is gone, as is any emotion. Matthew's heart stops as he realizes that he may have just lost his brother.

Empty blue eyes stare back at him and Alfred now resembles a zombie in both body and mind. Matthew flinches at his next words,

"You're not real," Alfred tells him, his voice raspy and as empty as his eyes. "Just like all of those other times. You're not here," Alfred squeezes his eyes shut and then, in nothing more than a whisper, he continues, "You were never here."

Matthew watches a lone tear fall, not sure if it's his or Alfred's, on Alfred's sunken cheek and slowly trails down his face. He doesn't know because, much like his brother, his eyes are now glued shut as well.

….

England glances proudly around the room, knowing that in a few short days the Crown will once again change heads and that there will be another King Arthur on the throne. As Germany had said only a few days ago, it seems like a new age is dawning.

He sits quietly in the Church of England, preparing himself to see another monarch take the throne as had happened for centuries prior. His pride in his country never ebbs, but it's at this time that his pride always hits an all-time high.

England studies every inch of the church, past coronations coming to mind. He's just about to rise from his seat, maybe even leave, when the sound of his ringtone echoes through the room, breaking whatever spell he was just under.

England grins wryly at the irony in that statement.

He fishes his phone out of the pockets of his trousers and glances at the screen. He frowns when he sees the picture of Canada on the front. He couldn't remember the last time his former colony had called.

He presses the 'accept call' button on his phone and holds it to his hears, keeping his voice pitched low. He doesn't know why but something about the building makes him want to keep quiet, as though the two ancient beings are keeping one another's secrets. It's a ludicrous thought, but it keeps him quiet.

"Hello, Matthew," England answers, his underlying tone curious. "What can I do for you?"

"How quickly can you get to Ottawa?" Matthew asks without preamble. England frowns at the sound of the younger nation's voice. Had he been…?

"Matthew, have you been crying?" England asks, sitting up straighter in his seat. England hears an odd sniffling noise, which answers his question.

"That's not important," the former colony tells him and England can imagine the lad wiping his nose on his sleeve as he had done many times before in the past. "How fast can you get to Ottawa?"

"You mean… why do you need us in your capitol?" England demands, knowing that if Matthew invited him then he no doubt invited the Frog. "Matthew, what's going on, lad?"

"Look, I'll answer all of your questions later, just tell me: how quickly can you get to Ottawa?"

England studies the patterns of the church in front of him, wondering what's happened that's gotten the usually quiet nation to sound so… _demanding_.

"I can get there as soon as possible," England promises, already rising from his seat and making his way out of the church.

"Good," Matthew answers. "That's good. Call me once you've reached Ottawa and I swear I'll explain everything. I'll talk to you later," and, without even a goodbye, Matthew hangs up, leaving England listening to that insistent beeping of the tone dial.

England is frowning as he leaves the church, trying not to bump in to anyone as he moves along in the crowd. His people are talking on their phones, talking to one another, or staring straight ahead, lost in thought. England has a feeling that for the next few days, he'll more resemble the lot staring straight ahead, lost in their thoughts.

…

Hours later, Matthew's sitting in one of the empty hospital chairs, a disgusting cup of black coffee cradled in his hands.

His brother's words from earlier are still bouncing around in his mind-

-_You not real_-

What the hell was going on in the country south of them? What could possibly be happening that could send is obnoxious, strong brother into that shadow of his former self?

-_Just like all those other times_-

He groans in frustration and leans forward, placing his cup on the ground and burying his head in his hands. Kuma sits contently in his messenger bag, curled up and sleeping. Every cut, every scar, every bruise and bone he can see leaves Matthew wondering how bad are things in the States? What can possibly be going on there that's leaving his brother like that? Is that the reason why Plutarch has yet to answer anything? Is he still alive within the borders? What's going on?

-_You're not here_-

'Here' for what? What on earth wasn't he there for?

Matthew growls and runs a hand roughly through his hair, glaring down at his innocent cup of coffee. He's trying to forget the look in his brother's eyes when he'd dismissed him so easily, tries to forget his words. But it seems the harder he tries to forget, the more they rise to the surface.

He swears and rises to his feet, his hands buried in his pockets. Around him, people are running to and fro, trying to get to one place or another. They're his people. Right here, right in front of him. Then why is he so focused on a people that aren't his? What can possibly be gained by focusing on a country that isn't his?

The answer is immediate: my brother. Because, no matter how annoying, how obnoxious, how pure-dead _infuriating_ his brother was, he helped him whenever he could without a second thought. After all, wasn't that what family was? Accepting the good along with the bad? Isn't that how any relationship truly worked?

He sighs and falls back into his seat, his elbows resting on his thighs and his head buried in his hands. He doesn't know how long he's sitting like that when he hears someone drop into the seat next to him. When he looks up, he sees the receptionist, Anshi.

He offers a hello which she returns with an easy smile. Matthew's heart beats faster and he straightens up in his seat,

"Well," he asks, hearing the hope in his own voice. Anshi is still smiling, bits of dusk-coloured hair falling out of the bun on her head. "Did it work? The radio?"

"It worked," she announces, her smile widening. When Matthew had finally left Alfred's room, he'd seen Nurse Kelly leaning against the wall, no doubt waiting for him to leave. He'd ignored the Matthew's tear-streaked face and smiled sympathetically at the nation. Matthew had forced a grin in return (he was positive that Nurse Kelly had heard the exchange: Alfred was anything but quiet) and had asked the man for a favour.

In Alfred's room now sits an old-fashioned radio, playing a mix of songs from an old IPod one of the nurses had gotten their hands on. Downloaded onto the IPod were songs from years ago. Songs that Alfred would have heard and should recognize. Some of the songs were Country, some Rap, some Hip-Hop, R&B, Rock; anything that would make calm his brother down and make him realize that he was safe.

Judging from the smile on Anshi's face, Matthew had the feeling that, finally, something had worked.

"He's calmer than ever, I swear I even catch him humming a tune or something," she continues, still beaming. Matthew returns the look as his heart calm its rhythm. He slumps forward in his chair.

It worked-

_You're not really here_-

I can't believe it worked-

_Just like all those other times_-

Now all he has to do is wait for the other countries to get here, more familiar faces to prove that Alfred is not dreaming-

_You were never here_-

Don't worry, Alfred, he thinks, a steely resolve straightening his spine as the receptionist casts him one more smile before leaving. We'll find some way to help you.

_You're not really here_.

**Sorry about the wait everyone! I came home from school and hung out with some friends I haven't seen in months and stayed up well past midnight! moving on... **

**Sooo... Not what anyone had in mind, right? Don't worry. I'm sure things will work out in the end. Matthew will find some way to get through Alfred's thick head. Honestly, I'm not sure about this chapter. I don't know why. Maybe the pacing. **

**Anyways, I doubt anyone caught this but when I was reading through this for the third or fourth time, I caught something near the top- the 'Tell-tales signs of the heart monitor.' That reminded me of the Edgar Allen Poe Poem. 'The Tell-Tale Heart.' Creepy though it may be, that kind of made me laugh, I'm not gonna lie. Anyways, Have a marvelous Saturday and I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! Please comment and continue being awesome! **

**P.S. *smiles sheepishly and waves* _if_ this wasn't what you had in mind please don't throw anything at me. It makes sense, given the circumstances.**

**P.S. Also, I'm not sure with the timing and everything in the book, I'm rereading it and trying to figure that, I'm kind of wondering if I can play around with said timing...**


	12. Mistaken Identity

**Hey all! First, YEAH! Chapter 12's up! Next order of business:**

**Thank you so much for everyone who commented or read up to here. You have no idea how much your support means. **

**So, yeah like I said Chapter 12 is up and ready :D Please read and enjoy it! **

When England steps foot off of the plane, the first thing he notices is the bustling crowd, of course.

People everywhere, in every space, and in every queue. He also notices the discombobulating feeling of stepping out of one's own country into another's. The feeling is much like standing up to quickly after lying down for a long stretch of time.

He glances around the airport, attempting to catch sight of Matthew or someone he recognizes. He frowns when he realizes that the former colony is nowhere in sight.

Odd. Usually when someone visits the country, the young nation would be around to welcome them.

He shakes his head and continues walking through the crowd, still attempting to catch sight of anyone. He wonders if he's missed a call from the nation but quickly waves that thought away: his phone is on in case his boss finds the need to call him during his stay here. There's no possible way that he can miss his phone ringing.

He's bumbling aimlessly through the crowd when he suddenly feels someone grasp his elbow and drag him away. He spins immediately to face whatever threat has him and sees a mess of blonde hair. He glowers at the Frog, and shakes his hand off.

"What the bloody hell was that about, you wanker?" he demands, straightening out his sleeve and pointedly wiping the invisible dust particles off. He glowers at France who's staring back impassively, all the while flexing his fingers.

"It is good to see you as well, _Angleterre_," the Frenchman drawls with a faint smirk. "How are you on this _beau jour_?"

"I was doing quite well until you showed up," England snaps, his temper rising. He glowers at the still smirking French nation, wondering if he can get away with shoving him in front of a coach. He quickly shakes that thought away. They were allies, after all, even if the git drove him up the bloody wall more times than not. "What are you doing here?"

The Toad raises an eyebrow, his amusement from earlier fading. "Matthieu called me early yesterday asking if I could make it here. As I haven't seen _mon fils_ in quite some time, I thought it was a good time to see him," here, the Toad frowns. "I was aware that he was inviting you, _Angleterre_, but I was not aware that you would come. You have a coronation soon, _ai-je raison? _What are you doing here?"

England clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably before meeting the Frenchman's gaze. "You are correct, sir," he tells him, somewhat stoically, "but when Matthew called, he sounded…"

"_Troublé_?" The Frenchman finishes, earning a nod from England. Both frown and catch the other's gaze, eyebrows raised. It isn't often that the two nations were in the same mind frame, but this, it appears, is a rare instance. England doesn't have to be a mind reader to know what Francis is thinking.

_What's going on?_

The Toad shrugs and the two continue walking though the airport, casting frigid glares at the humans who run into them without even a polite, 'sorry.'

They almost reach the front of the airport when, beside him, the Toad stiffens and hangs a u-ey, nearly slamming into a small group of tourist, all of whom scowl at the Frenchman who ignores their glares. England raises an eyebrow at the out of character behaviour but tries to follow the nation's path.

He ventures forward with a polite 'sorry' and pushes his way through the crowd, trying to find the Toad and demand what the bloody hell had that been about?

He curses his height or lack thereof and is just about to reach for his phone and call Matthew, demanding either an explanation or a ride, the Toad be damned, when he feels a hand latch on to his elbow (fucking _again_), dragging him forward. He stumbles along, demanding that the prat release him or face his wrath—he's always wanted to see the Toad with fuchsia hair—before he's suddenly dragged to a stop, the Frenchman in question looking even more confused than previously.

England glowers at him, putting every ounce of the former Empire that he was into said glare, when he finally looks and sees what's surprised the idiot so.

Standing in a small circle are five Territories and nations that both France and England are well familiar with. One of the Territories—a girl with curly dark hair, caramel-coloured skin, dark, olive shaped eyes—glances up and meets the two nations' eyes. Her eyes widen and she says something to the others. They also look up, see the two Nations, and make a mad dash for them.

Seconds later, the two European countries are surrounded by what looks like three teenager and two men who look to be in their late teens—18 or 19.

Both raise European nations raise their eyes at the out-of-breath territories and countries, wondering what on earth they were all doing here.

The girl they'd seen first—the Territory of Guam—speaks first,

"D'you have any idea why Sir Canada might have called us here?"

France and England, for their part, raise an eyebrow and share a look, both wondering why Matthew had found the need to call former American Territories and States to this little meet-and-greet.

"We are just as confused as you all, _mon cher_," the Toad answers warmly, glancing from one territory to the next. One of the two only countries of the five, Israel, speaks up, glancing between the two with interest.

"Why did he call you two here?" The lad asks curiously, eyes still darting between the two.

"I'm sure once we see him, he'll explain everything," England answers, keeping calm. The Territories and nation all share another confused glance when Juneau, the representation of the former American State, Alaska, moves forward, glancing worriedly between the two.

"It is about dad?" She asks, seemingly ignoring their former statement of allowing Canada to explain what was going on. Beside her, Honolulu, the representation of Hawaii, reaches out to grasp Juneau's shoulder, as though trying to comfort her. She looks up,

"_Have_ you talked to our father lately?" She asks, seeming anxious. "About anything? Trading? Ahh… oil agreements?"

"No," England tells her honestly, quickly raising his voice when the others share a worried glance. "But I'm sure he's fine! The git's been through terrible things and has come out on top. His silence is probably him trying to return to isolationism."

"Because that worked out _so well_ the last time," Guam grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. Though her actions are defensive, her brows are furrowed and there's a definite amount of worry in her eyes.

Puerto Rico, whose studying the two European powers with interest, asks, "If you had heard from him—theoretically, I'm talking about a theoretical instance, not trying to insinuate anything!—would you still have told us?"

"If this _is_ about your father," France begins quietly, sharing another pointed look with England, "and he wants everything to return to what it was like before, would you want that?"

"Alaska, Hawaii," England continues, earning the attention of the two States, "you two are the closest things to autonomous that any State has been in for years; you two are protected by both Russia and Japan respectively. If this is about your father, would you want to go back to him?"

The two share a look, one that neither England nor France can translate, before England turns to Puerto Rico and Israel, "You two are working on another year of peace, something that neither of you have seen in many, many years. If, _if_ this is about America, would you two go back to him?" He now turns to Guam whose biting her lips and looking between her siblings and friends, "And, Guam, your siblings are slowly helping you to build your own economy, to make a name for yourself. If this is about your father, would you go back?"

The five young beings glance between each other, all of them seeming somewhat torn. Finally, France forces a smile and pats the closest being on the shoulder, stating,

"As this may have nothing to do with your father, then it is somewhat _ridicule _to worry about hypothetical inquiries, _non_?"

The beings glance between themselves, Israel finally nods, definitely the self-appointed spokesperson for the small group. With this, France grins and claps his hands together before sauntering to the front, calling for them to follow him.

England glares at the Frog's back before ushering the younger beings to go in front of him, taking up the rear as the five continue forward.

Lost in his own thoughts, England almost misses when Juneau appears at his side, keeping up with the nation with ease. This shouldn't surprise him; she managed to keep up with bloody _Alfred_, once upon a time. Alaska walks silently beside England for a moment, both lost in thought. Finally, she speaks,

"I think we would," she tells him quietly. England glances up, surprised and nearly runs into a small family. He calls an apology over his shoulder as the people walk by, their young child making a face up at him. England turns back to look at the being, an eyebrow raised. Alaska clears her throat and repeats, "our father? If he did come back, Lulu and I? We'd help him. We may even go back to him."

"Is that so?"

"England," Alaska begins, only to wrinkle her nose at that, as though uncomfortable with the formality. Once again, this was no surprise considering who her father was. The man had called everyone by their given name, never seeming uncomfortable no matter the circumstances. "England, it was never perfect, but once upon a time we had other siblings. The fifty States? The Fifty stars on that flag? That was once all of us. I can remember _my_ star, the star that signified my entry into the country. I can remember the look on my father's—on Alfred's face—when I was introduced to him. I can remember that January day when I became an actual State." Her eyes become glazed and she stares at nothing. England allows her that silence, allowing her to gather her thoughts. Finally, her eyes clear and she looks up at him, "he would visit us, did you know? On our birthdays, the days we became a State, he would come over, usually with Lulu or Alban or Mr. Matthew or someone in tow. He's the one that bought me Moose, my Malamute."

"But would you give up everything and go back to him?" England asks as the group leaves the airport, France trying to hail a cab and growling in French when they ignore him.

"Not everything," Alaska finally allows her voice quiet as yet another cab rolls by. "There are some things that I've gotten used to. But-" she looks at England straight on and stands up even straighter, as though preparing for a fight. "I miss my siblings. I haven't heard from anyone in nearly 75 years. And the last thing I heard? It was them arguing about some politician. Some of them were calling the man their salvation; others were calling him their damnation. Some were hailing him as hero while others were hailing him a monster. Now, I wasn't really around for the Civil War, but from how everyone explained it, this sounded a lot like that."

England studies her, frowning, "so, do you think that this politician had something to do with Alfred declaring this isolationism of sorts?"

"I think-"

"_Dieu merci!_" The Toad exclaims as a cab finally stops in front of them. The driver looks at the seven beings and nods his head at them, as though confirming that the lot of them can, in fact, fit in the car. The group clambered into the car, Alaska sliding in next to Israel and Hawaii, the three speaking rapidly about one thing or another. For his part, England frowns and stares unseeingly out the window, trying to remember anything he could about the man who'd first come to so much power in the States all those years ago.

…

Matthew sits outside, waiting for everyone to get there. Though he had originally wanted to call only immediate family, he'd quickly realized that if he hadn't called their allies, then somehow word would spread and they'd demand information. This seemed like a good idea, telling everyone everything he knows at once.

Part of him is worried that too much too soon will only make everything worse, yet at the same time the thought of repeating the story again and again seems impossible.

Alfred, his proud, dreaming brother was now bound to a hospital bed so that he wouldn't hurt anyone.

Matthew sighs and stands up, leaning back against the hospital wall and staring out at the road. He's waiting for Ludwig and Feliciano, Kiku, Ivan, Yao, Arthur, and Francis. He'd also invited June, Lulu, Eduardo, Eli, and Mariana, States and Territories that had been close to Alfred.

He reaches for his phone and begins going through his contacts again and making sure that he gave everyone the right location. Seeing he did, he now checks the time. It's only been… five minutes since he's last checked it? Maybe ten?

He sighs and returns his phone to his pocket, debating on whether or not he should check on the girl again. Maybe she's finally woken up and is ready to talk? Perhaps shed some light on just what is going on in the country south of them?

The last time he'd paid her a visit, she'd been asleep—or unconscious; the nurse was adamant that the girl had collapsed due to exhaustion, malnutrition, and some dehydration. The bullet wound, they told him, also was partially at fault: though it had been bandaged as well as possible given the circumstances at the time, the wound had still been bleeding. Her ankle was sprained, something about having too much pressure on it, and her face and skin in general were covered by scrapes and bruises, leaving the nation wondering just what had they been running from so profusely?

Matthew rises from his position of leaning against the wall, wanting to pace but not wanting to draw attention to himself. He's already told one of the nurses that he had called and told their family about the patients and their family was on their way.

Matthew glances down and watches as Kuma threads in and out of his legs, trying to untie his shoelaces for something to do. He rolls his eyes at his polar bear but lets the small beast thread around his legs. From a distance, Kuma probably looks like a small dog playing with his master.

"Please don't untie my shoes," the nation requests with a wry smile. Kuma stops his playing and glances up, his head cocked curiously to the side.

"Who are you?"

"I'm—"

"Mathieu!" A familiar French voice calls, jerking the nation's attention away from his small friend and towards what is no doubt about to become a very interesting conversation.

Matthew smiles as he spots his Papa waving at him. Around the French nation are only a few of the other nations that he had called for this meeting. England, as always, is glowering at Matthew's Papa as though insulted by his very presence. Around the two nations Matthew sees a few other Territories that he had called, knowing that of anyone, they'd want to know about their father the most.

He waves the seven over and greets his father with a smile when they reach him. His father beams, exclaims in French how big he's gotten, and then frowns, glancing around them all.

"It is good to see you, _mon fils_, but why now? Is everything _bien_?"

Matthew, having no idea how to answer that—in a way, everything is alright, isn't it? His brother is there, after all—turns to face England. The island nation studies the younger nation in silence, making Matthew nervous. It's always been like that. Where Alfred saw a somewhat benign father-figure, Matthew always saw a powerful leader, maybe even mentor. But never a father.

"England," Matthew greets him, inclining his head to the side. His voice is polite and he hopes his smile is just as polite. Before England has a chance to return the greeting, Matthew is practically tackled by one of the former States.

Juneau, as energetic as her father when comfortable, practically throws Matthew to the ground with her hug. Through the years, and due to their close proximity, the two had gotten especially close. June falls back and studies Matthew with a wide smile.

"Hey, Mattie!" She crows, sounding as excited as her father always was. "Care to explain why you called us all here?"

"We're not complaining, though," Lulu drawls from a few steps behind her sister. She's smiling, too. "It's good to get a break to see some familiar faces. Though," Lulu turns and studies the hospital they're standing in front of and wrinkles her nose, "your choice in meeting places leaves much to be desired."

"Yeah, Mattie," June interrupts, still bouncing and holding tightly to Matthew's hands, "why did you choose a hospital? Is there something you wanted to tell us? Is it your Boss? Oh, God is he okay? When did he get here? Is he—"

"Perhaps you should give Mathieu a chance to breath, _oui_?" Papa France interrupts, smiling ruefully at June's behaviour. June smiles sheepishly and falls back a step, still bouncing on the heels of her feet. Behind her, Puerto Rico rolls his eyes and places a hand on her shoulder. When she whirls around to glare at him, he grins and says,

"To tether you to the world, _si_? That way, you don't fly off into space."

June glares at him but rolls her eyes, earning a snicker from Mari, who's smiling at what she perceives as her siblings. When she catches Matthew's eyes, she winks.

"Hawaii's correct," England announces earning the attention of everyone and casting a somewhat unimpressed look at the hospital. "Of all places to meet, why choose a hospital? Is there something you wish to tell us?"

Matthew squirms which, of course, isn't missed by anyone. England's bushy brows shoot up to his hairline, "lad, what's going on? _Is_ there something you want to tell us?"

Matthew clears his throat, "I think we should wait until the others get here," he announces, earning more surprised looks from the others.

"Others?" Eli asks, his own eyebrows raised. He and Eduardo share a confused look, "who else is coming?"

"Only Ludwig, Kiku, Yao, and I invited Ivan, but he said he couldn't make it," he explains, choosing to ignore the looks they shoot each other. England frowns and begins slowly,

"Matthew, why exactly did you invite us all—"

"Make vay!" A familiar voice crows above the former empire. The eight of them all turn to see another small group of nations making their way towards the group. Matthew hears England mutter something that sounds suspiciously like, 'Oh, God, not him.' "Make vay because awesomeness has just arrived."

Sauntering towards them is Prussia, followed closely by an irate Ludwig dragging Feliciano and tailed by Romano, Kiku, and Yao. The six new additions slowly march towards the original group, Romano looking more and more annoyed by the time they get there. Prussia is still smiling. Ludwig turns to face Matthew,

"Hello, Matthew," the Germanic nation greets, looking uncomfortable. The other nations exchange the appropriate greetings before each fall silent and turn to Matthew. Matthew clears his throat and stands up straighter, looking each nation in the eye.

"A couple of days ago," he begins slowly, his voice normal. Many of the nations seemed surprised by this. In World Meetings, this North American country is always so quiet. In his own home, though, where he's most comfortable, he's completely in his element. "I was told by someone that I work with that he had to call an ambulance because he'd found two kids passed out on his property. This didn't seem so important but after the man told me some things about the boy…" Matthew's voice trails off and he glances at the nations around him, each growing more and more confused.

"Mathieu," France begins, looking as perplexed as the others. "What does this have to do with—"

"It was Alfred," Matthew interrupts, watching the reaction of the countries around him. The reaction is immediate and he continues before anyone can interrupt him. "Guys, it _is_ Alfred."

…

Matthew trails behind England as he strides through the hospital, the other nations trailing behind them and the Territories and States darting around them. People are glancing up from whatever they're doing, all seeming surprised by the determined gait of the Englishman.

England doesn't even stop at the front desk; just marches to the room where Matthew told them housed Alfred.

When Matthew passes by the front desk, he allows a small wave to Anshi, who's watching the countries with wide eyes. Well, Matthew _had_ told her that he was expecting family. He never specified how big the family was.

The group makes it to the door, England not even pausing in his step when he pushes the door open. Everyone else files in after the Englishman, Papa France hot on his heels. The former States and Territories are looking around, hopeful, and looking as though they were trying to hide their excitement. Matthew feels bad; he has yet to explain their father's/mentor's conditions.

They see as soon as they walk in just how bad he looks.

Papa France and England step up to the bed and stop, staring down at the young country, their backs stiff. The other countries stay back, obviously curious but not willing to step closer unless given some kind of confirmation from England or Papa France. In the background, the radio is playing some old Hip-Hop song that Matthew hasn't heard in years.

Matthew steps up next to his mentors, trying to see his brother the same way they were no doubt seeing him: sad, broken, covered in scars and bruises, emaciated, some of the blood still drying on his skin.

It's not a pretty sight.

"What's this?" England demands quietly, waving at the binds across Alfred's wrists and ankles. Matthew grimaces.

"When they brought him in, he nearly hurt a couple of nurses," he explains, his voice low. Despite this, he knows his voice carries and that the other nations have no problem in hearing him. "They bound his wrists to keep him from hurting himself or anyone else."

England makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and motions towards the bony limbs, noting the deep bruises and odd angle it hangs in. obviously, both limbs have been broken before. Possibly more than once. England reaches for the binding and gently removes one of Alfred's wrists, Papa France working on the other one, a perturbed look on his face.

Matthew doesn't raise an argument. He hopes that these familiar faces will calm Alfred down but even if they don't, he's sure that a group of nations can manage to restrain one wasted nation.

As soon as Alfred's wrists are removed from their binding, the trio watches as his fingers flex—the visible bones and muscle acting on some unseen accord.

Papa France places a hand on Matthew's shoulder and pulls him a single step back, as though protecting him from whatever attack Alfred might be planning. Cautiously, England reaches forward, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder and begins shaking it slightly.

"Alfred?" The Island nation begins, Matthew pretending to not here the slight hitch in his voice. "Alfred, wake up, you great git. Have you any idea how worried you've made us, lad? I swear we can't leave you alone for five minutes without you causing some kind of ruckus, can we?"

With some more quiet words and the continuous shaking, Matthew watches as Alfred's eyes flutter and then slowly open, the striking blue unfocused and confused. He blinks once. Twice. And then a third time before his eyes focus on the three faces hovering above his. He blinks again, seeming confused, before his eyes darken and he squeezes them shut. The three are close enough to hear him mutter,

"Fucking _assholes_… This isn't real. They aren't real. They aren't here…"

"Of course we are here, _petite sotte_," Papa France scoffs, though his voice is kind enough to counter the insult. Alfred doesn't even open his eyes, only continues muttering under his breath. England scoffs and reaches to brush some of Alfred's hair away from his forehead,

"You honestly think you could come up with something like this? You're not that creative, lad. And what happened to your bloody glasses? You know you can't see shit without them."

Alfred flinches away from his hand, earning a frown from England, but slowly reopens his eyes, blinking three more times before he begins to struggle. Matthew can see the desire in his brother's face to sit up, to have some control of the situation. So he reaches for his brother's shoulder, gently pushing Papa France and England's hands away, and grabs Alfred's forearm. He knows his brother is too proud to ask for help, but he does so subtly, enough to tell Alfred that he's there.

When Alfred finally manages to sit up—with Matthew doing half of the pulling and Papa France and England's silent support—the injured nation studies the room, ignoring his mentors' hands on either of his shoulders and Matthew worried gaze. His eyes scan the room that he's in and slowly rove over each face, taking everything in. Matthew pretends to not hear the shocked intakes of breath from the other nations at the state of Alfred.

Matthew watches Alfred's face, looking for any change in his expression. He remembers his last visit and the fear that was so evident in his eyes. Now his face is frozen in a mask, trying not to show any emotion. Matthew can't remember a time when he's seen his brother look more like England.

Alfred's eyes continue to study every person until they stop on one in particular, his entire body freezing. Matthew frowns and glances over his shoulder at the person his brother is watching like a hawk. He expects it to be one of his States or Territories, shocked that they had grown so much.

He doesn't expect it to be Prussia.

Neither, it seems, does anyone else. Ludwig frowns and glances between his confused brother and the injured, tense nation. He looks as though he wants to step forward, maybe say a word or make up an excuse to why his brother is here. Before he can say anything, Prussia speaks up,

"Long time no see, eh brat? You look like shit. I can't remember a time vhen—"

No one is expecting what happens next: none of the countries are prepared and the hands on Alfred's shoulders are not restraining; they're comforting. Matthew doesn't see the subtle shift of emotion across Alfred's face, too preoccupied with trying to figure out why on earth Alfred seems so concerned with Ludwig's brother.

Alfred lunges forward with a snarl, unhooking his heart monitor (throwing the damned thing in the corner, more like) and disconnecting the comforting hands on his shoulder while sending Matthew staggering out of the way. The other nations don't expect this so none of them are ready for an attack. Prussia, most of all, is unprepared when the once great nation slams into him, sending him against the wall, and wrapping his hands around his throat.

The two struggle for a second longer until everyone finally manages to catch up with what's happening. Ludwig reacts first by darting forward and tearing Alfred away from his brother. England and Papa France aren't far behind, and even Yao and Kiku try their hardest to keep the two separated.

Despite Alfred's emaciated form, it takes the combined force of England, Ludwig, Papa France, Kiku, Yao, and even Eli, Eduardo, and Lulu to keep a struggling Alfred away from a very shocked Gilbert.

Matthew steps between the two, trying to get his brother's attention. Alfred ignores him and continuous snarling and trying to lunge at Gilbert, who's fallen to the ground and messaging his neck. Alfred is completely ignoring—or maybe can't even comprehend—the surprised shouts around him. His blue eyes are blazing and his mouth is twisted into one of the most animalistic snarls Matthew has ever seen on his brother's face.

"Easy there, lad!—"

"America, vhat is—"

"America-san, friend, we are not threats—"

"Daddy-o! Calm your shit—"

"_Aru_, we are your friends!—"

"_Amérique_, what happened—"

"You think you can kill me?" Alfred croaks his voice softer than anything Matthew has heard from his brother. Somehow, this quiet scares him more than the raging. Gilbert glares up at Alfred and snaps,

"Vhat is your problem, brat?—"

"You think you can kill me?" Alfred repeats, his voice shifting from a croak to a low snarl. His eyes are still blazing, a fury that Matthew hasn't seen on his face in years. His bloodless lips curl up into a horrible mockery of one of Alfred's cocky smiles before twisting into another snarl. He tries to lunge and Gilbert, but the others hold him back. "I am fire and rage," Alfred continues, his blazing, crazed eyes never leaving Gilbert. "I have watched Empires fall; I have seen people burned and murdered, twisted into a pretzel; I've pointed a gun at the head of a great power and pulled the trigger. You think you can kill me?"

"Alfred," Matthew tries his voice still firm, though he's growing more and more worried about Alfred. "Come down, Brother-mine, there's nothing—"

"I have watched greater men than you die by the dozens," he continues. "I watched thousands of leaders come and go, some killed by their own people. Do you really think you're any better than them? Do you really think that you're any different than them? Do you really think you can kill me? I am over five hundred years old, _you can't kill me!_"

The final snarl was something that Matthew has never heard his brother use before and before he can say anything, anything at all that might stop Alfred's raging, Matthew hears the sound of something heavy hitting flesh. He watches as Alfred's eyes glaze over before rolling back into his head causing Alfred to collapse, the only thing holding him up being those who were just restraining him.

They all glance over their shoulders at whatever had just incapacitated Alfred. Behind them stands Romano, holding the old radio over his shoulder and half glaring/half staring at Alfred with wide eyes.

"Bastard," he snaps, though Matthew can hear the shock underlying his words. The other countries, save for Papa France, England, and Ludwig—who are slowly dragging Alfred back to the bed he'd just been sleeping on—are quiet, leaving the entire room quiet in their wake.

Matthew turns to Gilbert who's still leaning against the wall and rubbing his neck, his expression less scared and more confused. Matthew offers a hand to the nation. Gilbert grabs his hand and allows Matthew to pull him to his feet.

"You okay?" Matthew asks, looking him over and releasing a relieved sigh to see him more or less unharmed. Gilbert nods slowly as the trio manages to place Alfred back onto the hospital bed. Ludwig and Papa France place him down and back away, their silence an obvious betrayal of their surprise. England remains at Alfred's side, smoothing his hair and muttering something too low for anyone to hear.

Finally, England looks up, his own green eyes blazing with something akin to fury. He stares Matthew down and slowly steps in front of the bed, his gaze every bit the mighty Empire that he once was.

Matthew swallows hard, slightly nervous about what's to come.

"Matthew," England begins slowly, enunciating every word clearly and never taking his eyes off of Matthew. "What the fucking _hell_ just happened?"

**Sooo... Any comments? For anyone that kind of wants to get a take on Alfred losing it and what that just might sound like, the inspiration for that little possessed moment came from Stiles in Teen Wolf. So, if there are any Teen Wolf fans out there, this is your moment. I remember the first time I saw the Nogitsune! Stiles and I was so impressed with the acting. Like, wow. Dylan O'Brien is amazing. **

**Any favorite moments? In this chapter, in the entire story so far, in life? Any ideas on where anything is going? I'm really curious now to see what people are thinking. Anyways, Please comment and enjoy and though I'm feeling like I'm forgetting something, it'll probably come to me later. PEACE!**

**P.S. THAT'S WHAT IT WAS! What do you think about the Territories/States/Countries introduced? Like, come on, what did happen to Alaska and Hawaii when the mainland was enveloped in the Hunger Games? What could have happened? My theory is that they're still around, still kicking, but they didn't have the slightest idea what to make of their 'father' closing his borders. They were too busy in their own lives. And honestly? As long as it seems, 75 years doesn't seem that long for the countries. Come on, Iggy alone is _how old_? Maybe not seeing Countries that They're close to in 75 years is slightly worrisome, but in the overall span of things it's not really that long. And-another huge _and_-when I named the States, I used their names as the Capitol of the State. Which is why Alaska is Juneau (June) and Hawaii is Honolulu (Lulu). Any guesses on who Alban was? I don't think this one's that hard... **

**Major cities are important but the Capitol is kind of where the heart is. **


	13. Farewell

**Yeah! Chapter 13! Before this starts I just want to say thank you everyone who reads and comments or just reads in general. You have no idea how positively ecstatic that makes me and how grateful I am for your support. I wish you all the best in your endeavors, whatever they may be. Please read and enjoy! **

"_What the fucking _hell_ just happened?"_

Matthew studies his family and friends, not entirely sure what to say. The truth? The truth is that their neighbours are hiding far more than anyone ever anticipated. How can he explain that without garnering the attention of every other country? Chances are, if the States are anywhere near as bad as Alfred appears then there is a serious threat that the States are vulnerable to an invasion.

He trusts the people in the room with him, he does. But he knows that alliances change with the wind and sometimes nations aren't wholly in control of their actions. And if one nation has a leader that wants to advance, then there's little to be done on behalf of the nation.

They must all follow orders.

"Matthew," England repeats while advancing a single step towards the North American nation. "I'll ask again: what they bloody hell just happened? What's going on that you're not telling us? Is there anything—"

"_Paix_, _Angleterre," _Papa France intervenes calmly, stepping between the two nations. "Peace. There is surely a good explanation for everything, _oui_?"

"A good explanation?" Gilbert scoffs, standing arrogantly beside his brother and rubbing his neck. He's glaring at the inert figure on the bed, "You claim that there is a good explanation? The brat just attacked—"

"He was not right in the head, _aru_!" Yao agues, standing up straighter. Of all the nations in the room, Yao support was the least expected. Matthew shoots him a faint smile that the country doesn't catch.

"Right nor not, that vas an unprovoked attack," Gilbert snaps before dropping his hand to his side. Matthew tries to ignore the irritated red skin and bruises in the shape of fingers on his neck.

"What do you suppose we do, then?" June snaps, her and her siblings scrambling to stand protectively in front of their father figure, physically knocking England out of the way. The Island nation glares them over his shoulder before turning back to face the others.

"Alfred has alvays been overdramatic," Ludwig says quietly, blue eyes shooting from one face to the other. "But this… this vas something different."

"Of course it was fucking _different_," Gilbert snaps, sarcasm lacing the final word. "He tried to strangle me!"

"He could have mistaken you for someone," Kiku intervenes, his voice quiet and his eyes lingering on the bed. "Perhaps that is why—"

"Mistaken me?" Gilbert demands, throwing his arms in the air, "mistaken me for whom? I'm not the most _normal _looking being out there. How many more like me are there? Vhat, are the red eyes and silver hair _common_?!" The distaste in his tone at the words 'normal' and 'common' aren't missed by anyone. Most, though, choose to ignore it.

"The bloody hell are you even doing here?" England demands, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering at the nation before shifting his attention to Ludwig. "Was there a particular reason—"

"I vas vith Feliciano and Gilbert vas vith me," Ludwig explains somewhat sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as a light blush steals across his pale skin. At his side, Feliciano is beaming at his larger friend. "Romano accompanied Feliciano when you called and I could hardly bring him here vithout his _bruder_—"

"Potato bastard," Romano grumbles under his brother, still holding the radio firmly in his hands. He levels one more glower at the Germanic country before turning back to England, "I came with my _Fratello _because I do not want to leave him with _that _bastard—"

"I really vish that you would explain vhy you hate—"

"Oh, I need a reason? Well, _ragione uno_—"

"Before we hash out family issues would someone please explain to me why America just went crazy and tried to murder Prussia?" Eli intervenes irritably. He's one of the beings standing protectively in front of Alfred. "Though I haven't been privy to their relationship in the former years, I'm almost positive that it wasn't bad enough for Alfred wanting to seek revenge."

"Of course it wasn't that bad," Lulu huffs, standing with her arms crossed over her chest. "He always looked up to him."

"He did?" Many nations in the room demand while looking shocked. Even Gilbert, beneath his smug smile, looks somewhat surprised beneath the mask. Lulu snorts and rolls her eyes,

"Oh, come _on_ you guys. Really? 'I'm awesome'; 'I'm a superpower'; 'I rule the world'. Does none of this sound familiar? Who taught Alfred that? Who taught Alfred how to fight? What, do you think he woke up one day and decided to be obnoxious?"

"Yes…" The muttered answer sounds from all around the room. Matthew can't help but notice the somewhat offended look on England's face. He quickly schools his features, returning to the stoic nation.

Mari rolls her eyes, "Revolutionary War, anyone? I remember Connor, Alban, and Richie telling me about how Alfred was before and after. _And_ that the leader of Prussia at the time helped the colonies. Imagine that? Some big world Power coming in and helping you out, showing you the ropes, and how to fight. Do you really think that some kind of hero worship _wouldn't_ appear?"

The entire room remains silent after this announcement. England, Matthew notices, is staring coolly at the two Germanic nations, his jaw clenched and his eyes somewhat narrowed. Matthew decides to try and steer clear of _that_ particular conversation for the moment. He opens his mouth to do just that when Lulu begins to snicker. The action catches the attention of the nations in the room, many of whom raise their eyebrow in question.

Lulu, still guffawing, turns to June, her eyes dancing mischievously. "Remember when Tally and Salem were practically at each other's throats about that one football game—"

June barked out a laugh and turned to face Lulu, her eyes dancing. "Yes! And Monty and Rouge were making things ten times worse by bringing up each team's past games—"

"And Tally was about to smack Salem when he said something about Winston—"

"Oh God, yes! And then Tally said something about… M-Marco?"

"Marcus," Lulu corrects, smile growing, "M&M, remember?"

"Yes!" June breathes, pumping her fist in the air and literally jumping. "Yes! M&M! And then Salem tackled her and the two started fighting and then Rouge—"

"She poured so much water on them I'd thought they'd freeze as soon as they walked outside!"

"But Winston and M&M!" June asks, beaming. Lulu nods solemnly, the expression ruined by the smile breaking across her face.

"Yes, Winston and M&M!"

Both States continue throwing their conversation back and forth, laughing the entire time. Matthew watches with his own burst of amusement as Ludwig leans forward, looking confused and asking England,

"M&M? Vasn't that a type of candy? And… Vinston? _Churchill_?"

"I have no bloody idea," England grumbles while shaking his head. Suddenly, before anyone else can say anything June belts out a laugh and Lulu spins to face the other nations, her eyes shining.

"Oh my God, if Alfred's here, where do you think the others are? Like, could Tally and Rouge and Connor and—"

"Alban!" June gasps, her olive-toned skin darkening slightly in a blush. "Could they be there too? Where are they? Would they be—"

"Juneau," Papa France interrupts quietly, stepping forward and placing a hand on her shoulder. Lulu and June calm down a little and stare up at the European country. "Honolulu, there's something the two of you should know."

"What?" Lulu asks, her word coming out in a huff of laughter. "Come on, you guys, what's the matter? Our siblings could be a couple kilometers, maybe a wall away. They—"

"Hawaii," Kiku interrupts quietly, stepping forward and brushing a strand of hair off of the young States forehead. "Look at the condition that America-kun is in."

Both States—as well as Mari, Eli, and Eduardo—obediently turn to look at their father-figure, now tied to the bed once again with the heart monitor standing in the corner, having been thrown away in the havoc of earlier. The five look back at the older countries.

"And?" Lulu asks, her voice still tinted with her earlier laughter. "He's been through worse. He'll be fine—"

"Hawaii," Kiku interrupts once again, not allowing either State to interrupt him. "Your father is in terrible shape. And, if our guess is correct, he's been like this for the past 75 years. If your siblings were still… _around_, do you honestly think they would have let him remain in a place where he no doubt suffered daily?"

Both States study the dark-haired nation, their smiles slowly fading. June begins shaking her head, neither acknowledging the grim mood that now fills the room.

"N-no," Lulu answers weakling, shaking Eli's comforting hand off of her shoulder. June's staring from one nation to another, none of them meeting her gaze. Even Matthew finds it hard to meet the pain filled eyes. "Come on, no. Like, okay maybe some of them… some of them faded, but not all of them."

"Then Vhere are they?" Ludwig asks, his voice not unkind. "It has been 75 years, _meine jungen freunde_, where are they?"

"They could have escaped," Mari argues, placing a hand on Lulu's shoulder. The small Island's gaze is unfocused as she stares off into the distance. "The northern States could have escaped into Matthew's land and some of the southern States could have made it into South America."

"Do you honestly think that any of your siblings would have left if your father was in need?" England asks quietly, his voice low. Though the words are hard, his voice is gentle.

The silence that follows is deafening. Finally, Lulu looks up, her eyes bright with tears that she refuses to shed. "W-why? Alright? I get that-that nations fade. Rome faded. Ancient Greece faded. Ancient Egypt faded. But... but how does it work with States?"

"They could have escaped," June mutters so quietly that it's almost missed by the others. "If they knew that they were outmatched, some of the smarter, older States would've known to retreat and then return. They _could _have escaped."

"I haven't heard anything from anyone south of the wall until now," Matthew tells her honestly, feeling his heart break when she slumps forward. "And none of my States have heard anything from them either." Here, Matthew stops and clears his throat, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I'm sorry," he mutters. No one answers and he hears something that sounds very close to sniffling. He doesn't look up to see who's crying.

"And to answer your earlier question," England answers, stepping forward. "A nation can stay alive as long as their country, their Capitol is still alive. As long as there are people who recognize their culture and heritage, people who willing adhere to said culture and heritage. A country's heart is real place, its Capitol—as odd as that sounds—and while there are still mortals whose hearts blaze with that same patriotic fire, then they will not die: if there is one fool willing enough to fight and die for the country, they will survive. Take that away, though, and the country is just as mortal as humans, just as susceptible to death. "

"States, though," Canada begins softly when England trails off. "States are different. They are not as strong as countries, nor do they have the same rules of mortality. If you destroy a State's heart and then physically kill them, then they will die."

"That's not—" June begins only to be cut off by an infuriated, disbelieving Lulu. She points a shaking finger at Prussia, who's staring back impassively, arrogantly.

"Then why is _he_ still alive?" She practically spits, her eyes no longer bright with tears but blazing with fire. "If a country is destroyed along with their heart, then why is _he_ still here? Why isn't _he_ dead?"

"East Germany," Ludwig tells her quietly while Prussia sneers at her. "He no longer represents Prussia, but East Germany after the Berlin Vall vent up."

"But the wall is down now, _si_?" Eduardo, the quietest of the five, asks his tone soft. "The Berlin Wall is down, it has been for years. Why—"

"Because I am awesome!" Prussia declares and Matthew imagines that he's trying to lighten the mood of the room. It doesn't work.

Eli, the peacekeeper of sorts within the group, turns to Matthew,

"You said that America appeared here with a girl, correct?" When Matthew nods, gaining the attention of almost every other being—save for Lulu and June who are still mourning for their siblings—Eli continues, "Show us the girl. Perhaps she can shed some light on whatever's happening there."

"I agree," England seconds, stepping forward with Papa France still hot on his heels. "I want to talk to the girl."

"The last time I tried to visit her she was still asleep," Matthew argues, though he knows he's already close to losing this battle. When many of the Nations continue staring unabashedly at Matthew, he finally sighs and nods, glancing from one country to the other. "Fine," he sighs, almost snaps, before shaking his head, "Fine. But some of us need to stay here. After all, we're a group of beings that are unfamiliar to this girl. If we all try to talk to her…"

He trails off, his warning hanging in the air. Finally, England and Papa France step forward, Ludwig not far behind. Near Alfred's bed, Eli and Mari step forward.

Matthew hesitates, not entirely sure that six is a good number for waking up a complete stranger, especially one that no doubt will be in shock. He nods, though, knowing that he won't be going anywhere without these five.

Matthew turns to those remaining in the room, "Watch him," he orders. "If he wakes up again…"

"Keep Prussia out of sight," Yao finishes, leaning back against the wall. "Everything will be fine, _aru_. We will take care of America."

Matthew studies him silently for a moment longer, torn. Though he knows there's nothing left for him to say, he doesn't want to leave his brother alone. Seeing this, Papa France steps forward and places a hand on Matthew's shoulder,

"_Paix_," he tries with a calming smile. Against his will, Matthew feels his shoulders droop, calmed despite himself. "Your _frère _will be fine, _oui?"_

Matthew steadies himself with a deep breath and smiles warmly at his father. "_Oui_," he replies, walking calmly to the door with the five others trailing behind him. Matthew doesn't look back as he leaves the room, though he feels his stomach tighten.

…

The room housing the girl is much the same as the one housing Alfred. Though it possesses less of the technology than Alfred's—her injuries, after all, were significantly less severe—there is still the basic heart monitor as well as the IV machine. The boots, bag, and clothes that he assumes she'd been wearing when brought in are folded neatly on a table and her dark trench coat is hanging off the back of the room's door.

Her monitor is steady, her breathing is calm, and she's sleeping as much as when he'd last saw her. Nothing about her has changed.

"Is this her then?" Mari asks, glancing around the room curiously. Matthew sees her eyes linger on the girl's apparel but says nothing.

England, however, sees her bag in the corner and steps towards it. He grabs one of the straps, pulls it to him, and begins going through it. He pulls out a single silver sphere; some rope; torn bits of paper; and what looks to be a lighter. Matthew watches as he begins rummaging through the bag, as though trying to get a clear picture of what's in the bag. As he's watching, Matthew sees England still for a second and then breath deeply, as though steeling himself.

England pulls from the bag a torn and moth-eaten American flag, its colours faded after years of abuse. Both Papa France and Ludwig dart to where England is standing, Mari and Eli watching from a distance. Matthew doesn't step closer. The image of the tattered American flag is hardly something that Matthew wants to see.

So, he turns away from them and ambles towards the girl, ignoring the muttered conversation behind him.

Lying in the bed, fast asleep, the girl could be any other kid from any other country. The big difference, though, are the cuts—both shallow and deep—on most visible skin as well as the half-faded bruises beneath her eyes. The bullet wound from earlier has been bandaged and her ankle is wrapped. Her fiery hair is pulled back from her countenance and the oval-shaped face is covered in freckles, telling Matthew that the girl is used to spending hours beneath the sun. The visible cords of muscle and the tell-tale callouses on her hands tell him that she is also used to hard work.

Whatever's happening south of them, Matthew can tell that, if this girl is any indication, that they're used to hard labour.

He reaches out and brushes his fingers across her forehead. She flinches in her sleep, much like Alfred had earlier. He frowns at that, wondering just what exactly could be happening that even in their sleep they react that way.

"Is this her, then?" Ludwig asks suddenly from behind Matthew. He glances at him over his shoulder and nods, stepping out of Ludwig's way so that he can get a better look. His eyes trail over her countenance and Matthew can tell that the Germanic nation is seeing everything that Matthew has. Surprisingly enough, his mouth turns up at the sides, an action that takes Matthew wholly by surprise.

Ludwig waves a hand at the girl as Papa France and England hand the flag off to Eli and Mari before slowly making their way to the bedside.

"It is odd," Ludwig finally says keeping his voice low as though he loathed waking the girl up. "I almost alvays forget the diversity amongst America's people. I see a small part of Kiku in her eyes and Northern Europe in her appearance as vell as some Romano in her expression."

"I don't think she looks quite that bitter," England comments dryly and Matthew can hear the amusement, though quiet, in his mentor's voice. Papa France makes a humming noise in the back of his throat as he reaches out to brush some hair out of her face. Once again, she winces and Papa France pulls his hand away, frowning.

"Is there a vay to vake her up," Ludwig asks, his hands folded behind his back. "Any vay at all? Just to answer questions and then she can go back to sleep."

Matthew is shaking his head before Ludwig even finishes. His own frown is evident. "I asked the nurses if there was any possible way to wake her up for just a second."

"And they said…"

"She didn't say anything," Matthew admitted, allowing himself a small, but amused smile. "The looks she gave me spoke volumes, though."

"Do any of the nurses or doctors have any idea how long she'll be out?" England asks. Again, Matthew shakes his head as he answers.

"Her body gave out," he tells the countries flatly. "That's all the nurses were able to tell me: she gave out due to exhaustion and hunger, even some dehydration. It was her body's way of coping with both shock and fatigue. They said to let her sleep."

"The human body is so weak," Eli says from behind them. Matthew turns to study the smaller nation over his shoulders. Eli is clutching one end of the American flag while Mari holds the other. Though they're more reserved than either June or Lulu had been, there's a silent grief in their eyes. Matthew's quietly astonished at their reactions: learning that forty-eight of your siblings are dead is bad. Mari and Eli, though, have hardly ever met any of them, as far as Matthew knows. Are they just reacting like this as a way to empathize with their friends? "How do they stand it?"

"They've learned to adapt," England answers steadily his voice somewhat tight, eyes distant. "It's human nature."

"Human nature," Mari repeats quietly, somewhat bitterly. She's still clutching the flag in her hands and her face is calm.

"Humans can be brilliant," Matthew defends.

"_Oui,_" Papa France agrees, stepping forward and resting a hand on his shoulder. "But they can also be deadly."

The silence that follows is deafening and Matthew's mind returns to his brother's prone figure just a few rooms away. After a silent minute, Ludwig finally breaks it.

"I think ve should have someone vait in the room, just in case something changes."

"I'll do it," Mari volunteers almost immediately. Matthew wants to argue, to tell her that she doesn't have to. Her expression silences him. "I'll wait here in case she wakes up."

"I'll wait with you," Eli says quietly. Matthew doesn't miss how they both clutch the flag. He doubts either of them will let it go anytime soon. He doubts that June or Lulu would let them get away with that.

"Very well," England answers, taking control as perfectly as ever. He nods at the two and turns back to study the girl. "You two stay and watch her and tell us if she wakes up. We'll return the favour with Alfred. Understood?"

The two nod and walk to the only chair in the room. Eli motions to Mari to take it and she does so. Eli drops to the ground at her feet and leans back against her knees, his arms resting on his drawn knees. Mari's hands reach out to run a hand through his curly hair.

England nods approvingly at the two of them, flashes the girl one last look over his shoulder, and then leaves, Ludwig at his side as the two begin talking. Papa France, his hand still on Matthew's shoulder, squeezes it once and he leans forward to brush a kiss on Matthew's forehead.

"_Garder la foi,_" he tells him with another squeeze. With that and one last smile, Papa France turns and saunters out of the room. Matthew watches him go, looks at the girl once more over his shoulder, and then turns to face Eli and Mari.

"Tell us—" he begins only to be cut off.

"If she wakes up," both parrot back with smiles holding various degrees of amusement. Matthew smiles sheepishly at the two and walks towards the door, only glancing back one more.

_Keep the faith_, Papa France had told him.

Yeah, easier said than done.

….

Psyche waits for the people to leave; waits for someone come in, check her vitals or whatever, and leave. She's slowly losing her mind the longer she waits.

She knows the other two… _people_? Is that what they are? Well, she knows the two beings are still in the room, can hear their conversation and knows that their waiting for her to wake up.

She hates this. Hates this waiting. She's fine, she's alive, and she can think clearly for the first time in what feels like forever. She just wants these people to leave so that she can make her escape. She was awake for the conversation about her and she's relieved—beyond relieved—to hear that these…_people_ are here and that she someone had managed to get America across that damned border and into a safe haven. A feat, if she was being honest, she didn't think she was capable of.

Now if only she could wait for like a minute longer for these people to _leave_ already…

Luck, maybe even the odds, finally seem to be in her favor and she hears the door open and the strangely calming, albeit strange in general, voice of who she's finally assumed is her nurse. She hears the woman tell the two to leave for a moment so that she can check the vitals and change her fluids.

Though Psyche understands the words themselves, the way the nurse uses them confuses her.

As she's been doing for what feels like an hour, she keeps her breath calm, trying to make it seem like she's asleep. She hears the shuffling sound of the two beings leaving the room before silence takes their place, with just her and the nurse.

The nurse, for her part, doesn't see anything out of the ordinary—she's quietly humming some catchy, though quiet beat that calms Psyche even more.

She breathes in deeply—

-And then she breathes out deeply.

She waits for the nurse, still humming, to unplug one of the wires in her veins. She waits for a second until she hears anything that might give her a chance to escape.

Psyche allows herself to crack open one of her eyes, hoping that the nurse isn't looking at her. The odds finally seem to be shifting in her favor when she sees the nurse studying the bags of fluid, her back to her.

Psyche realizes she has literally seconds to act so she doesn't waste any time: she sits up as quickly as she possible can and wraps one hand around the nurse's mouth and the other around her shoulder, dragging her onto the bed.

The woman is struggling and it's incredibly hard to keep her still, some stupid beeping continues, and she slips her hand wrapped around the struggling woman's shoulder to her neck, pressing down on a pressure point that Cassio had taught her, once upon a time, in case she ever got into a fight with someone far larger and she was at a disadvantage.

That someone was usually Octavius but, hey, what else were brothers for if not to be annoying?

The Nurse's struggling immediately stops and she slumps back against Psyche. At her side, the irritating beeping noise continues. She slowly lowers the woman beside her and climbs out of bed.

As soon as she stands up straight, a sense of vertigo hits her, sending her head spinning and creating little dots that find the need to dance in her vision. She shakes those away and glances at the beeping machine.

She realizes that she doesn't have long before the people enter so she grabs the neck of the monitor-thing and rolls it to the door, quietly turning the lock and hoping that no one on the outside hears the 'click'. When that's finished, she studies the machine, trying to figure out the best way to remove it from her person. The beeping continues and the strange glowing green zig-zagging line thing continues moving, almost mesmerizing her. She quickly shakes that off and glances down at her arm; taped at the inside of her elbow, some strange lines are attached to it.

She knows enough about tape to know what its purpose is so she reaches for the bit of tape and slowly pulls it away from her skin. When that parts done, she studies the strange line attached to her, watching the opaque movement of what she assumes is liquid running through the machine. She glances back up at the machine and decides that the best course of action would be to unplug it, though she has no idea how long she has when she does that.

She eyes the machine curiously and decides that, at best, she has about five minutes to do everything if she unplugs it. That also factors in her changing into real clothes, figuring out an escape plan—she's looked out the window; apparently, she's only on the first floor so she has no problem whatsoever there—and whoever comes having to try and unlock the door.

It actually sounds really complicated if she lets herself focus on it too much.

She slowly walks towards the machine and studies everything she can, from the wires to the machine itself.

She reaches for the plug and pulls it, watching as the heart monitor dies.

_Five minutes_.

She then slowly pulls the strange wire thing from her arm and watches as blood spills from the small point of open flesh. She reaches for a piece of cloth of her strange outfit and tears a small part of the fabric, wrapping it around her arm.

Her ankle, astonishingly enough, does not feel like a thousand bees are stinging it. Rather, more numb than anything else. And her side, though it also stings, is wrapped tightly enough that it should hold her until she makes it back to 13.

She quickly darts to the corner where her clothes are neatly folded—she winces slightly when she realizes this; it made her feel slightly worse about what she did to the Nurse—and pulls on the garments as quickly as she can without pulling to tightly at her waist and ankle.

She turns and sees her jacket and easily pulls it on, the fabric molding to her skin like an old friend. She pulls on her boots, grateful that no one found the two daggers easily concealed in both boots, and reaches inside her bag.

She pulls out the Panem map and slowly begins tearing it tiny pieces: she doesn't want anyone to find her, to find them. To be perfectly honest, she doesn't know much about the outside world but all of it makes her feel leery about leaving a map out for them. There's also the fact that when (she refuses to think _if_) America wakes up, the chances of him wanting to help will be phenomenal and she can't allow that: she almost _died_ for the bastard and the last thing she wants to do is lead him right back to a place where he'd be more a hindrance than a help.

She tears the pieces apart until they're nothing more than little wads of paper.

She glances up at the clock in her room.

_A minute and a half_.

She considers bringing her bag but quickly brushes that though aside: there was nothing in it that she needs, not anymore. She has everything she could possible need and the bag will just slow her down. Plus, there's nothing in it that she needs.

She decides to forego the bag and marches to the window, easily undoing it. She's surprised, and exceedingly wary, about how easy everything is right now. Were they even trying? Surely, if they were really trying than security would be at some kind of maximum. If they were really trying, there'd be guards stationed outside, right?

She pushes the window open and easily climbs out, sliding gracefully to the outside world. No one notices her escape and no one tries to stop her. The only thing for her to do now is find her way back to the Wall.

_Why?_ Her mind whispers. _You could stay. If you stay then you won't have to fight anymore. You can sleep. You've done your part, now let someone else do theirs. _

It's an incredible, beautiful thought and for a second she contemplates climbing back into the room and curling up in the bed, safe for the first time in years. It will be better, wont it? After all, she's done her part. She can rest easy now knowing that America's safe. She can stay and tell them everything she knows.

As quickly as that thought enters her mind, she practically forces it from her mind, disgusted. Her entire life, she's been trained to fight. To die for a cause, any cause though they were taught that they were to die for the Capitol. She is a soldier, not some easily comforted little kid. It doesn't matter how nice or how calm this makes her. She's needed back in District 13 and she will fight until her last breath. _That _is her duty. _That _is her part.

This comfort is temporary; that victory will be eternal.

She turns and closes the window with a sense of finality and calmly walks towards the large congregation of people lined outside. What better place is there to hide than within a crowd?

…

_Five seconds._

_Four seconds. _

_Three seconds._

_Two-_

_Knock. Knock._

"Hello? Nurse Delacour?"

**Hey! What did you guys think? Good characterization? Explanations? **

**Personally, when I wrote this the escape sounded way too easy but maybe I'm just still in the mindset of Panem and shiz. Also, writing Psyche is a lot of fun, I'm not gonna lie. I hope she remained as 'in character' as possible, though we haven't heard from her in quite a few chapters. I was beginning to miss her. And Prussia. Matthew and Gilbert are really fun to write, as are Eduardo, Eli, June, Lulu, and Mari. Can you guys guess the game June and Lulu are talking about or the States? How did ya'll feel about the explanation about the States and stuff? The more I reread it the more sense it seemed to make. Maybe that was just me. Anyways, any questions, comments, or concerns just shoot me a PM and if you enjoyed this... Please tune in next week for the final chapter! **

**P.S. OH! Yeah, this is the second to last chapter for this but it's only because I really need to reread the book and it'll take me some time. College is a lot of work :P **

**P.S. S. Also, another spotlight for George deValier, a writer here on FF. Their stories are WWII AU's and are beautiful. Just... awesome. If you ever have a free moment, or hour, then read one of their stories.**

**P.S.S.S. Last thing, I swear. For anyone confused, I know the book said something about how Panem was made up of North America and that entails Canada as well. But, whenever I looked at any Panem map online I all of the US taken over whereas the Canada was called 'The Wilds.' Maybe that was just the government trying to keep outside help quiet and stuff or maybe that was VP Jones' way of keeping the other countries out of Panem. But, I know what the bok says but also, according to the book, the other countries were all gone and some of America was destroyed by natural disasters. For this, I think that VP Jones just wanted to corral the people within the country and keep them close, just so he could keep an eye on them. Whatever happened outside of Panem to the States may have been true once, but now is just used as an excuse to keep everyone on line.**

**Whelp, I hope that answers any questions and if not then I am a friendly person-if not a little sarcastic-and would be more than happy to answer any more! Have a happy Friday, my friends! **


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